BAYOU  TRISTE 

A  STORY   OF  LOUISIANA 


BAYOU    TRISTE 


A    STORY   OF 
LOUISIANA 


BY 


JOSEPHINE  HAMILTON  NICHOLLS 

/i 


NEW  YORK 

A.  S.  BARNES  AND  COMPANY 
1903 


Copyright,  1902 
BY  A.  S.  BARNES  AND  COMPANY 

Published  October,  1902 
Reprinted  November,  1902 
and  May,  190S 


PREFACE 

FOR  those  of  the  South  who  are 
familiar  with  Louisiana  planta 
tion  life   this    story  may  while 
away  an  hour  ;  to  those  of  the  North 
who  have  not  had  the  opportunity  to 
know   us   it   will  give  a  brief  insight 
into  the  happiest  and  most   indepen 
dent  of  lives. 

To  the  "  New  Orleans  Times-Dem 
ocrat  "  and  the  "  Detroit  Free  Press  " 
acknowledgment  is  made  for  courteous 
permission  to  republish  certain  of  the 
chapters  appearing  in  this  volume. 

JOSEPHINE  HAMILTON  NICHOLLS. 


M15597 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  THE  FUNERAL 1 

II.  THE  MATCH-MAKER 13 

III.  THE  COURTSHIP 25 

IV.  THE  CHAPERON 38 

V.  A  SOCIAL  ADVISER 68 

VI.  UNCLE  EPHR'UM 78 

VII.  AT  MADAME  JEAN'S 103 

VIII.  THE  KUNJERIN'  OF  SALLY- ANN  .     .  113 

IX.  THE  MISTRESS  OF  OAKWOOD  .     .     .  128 

X.  WHEN  THE  WATERS  CAME  UP     .     .  141 

XL  MA'  JANE'S  WEDDIN' 161 

XII.  THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ELIJAH       .     .     .  169 

XIII.  Six  MONTHS  OF  MARRIAGE     .     .     .  201 

XIV.  GOOD-BYE   .  209 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

"  Priscilla  gathered  up  her  brasses  "       .     .  16 

"  Mammy  held  out  her  hand  "      ....  53 

" '  Huccum  you  poke  fun  at   a   pore   old 

nigger?'" 98 

"  <  Look  —  the  bank  is  gone  ! '  "  .  .  .  .  158 


BAYOU    TRISTE 

A    STORT    OF    LOUISIANA 


THE  FUNERAL 

THE    plantation    bell    jangled 
across  the  fields ;  awhile  later 
a  dozen  wagons  rattled  down 
the  road  to  the  bayou  ;  musical,  deep- 
pitched  voices  shouted  good-humoredly 
to  restive   mules ;  then  the  big  gate 
banged,    startling   me   into    resentful 
wakefulness. 

The  sun  was  rising,  and  the  strange 
peace  of  the  early  morning  brooded 
over  pasture  and  garden. 

I  crept  out  of  bed,  threw  a  cape 
over  my  shoulders,  and  cautiously 
opened  the  window.  Yard  and  field 
and  distant  swamp  were  enveloped  in 
a  pale  fold  of  purple  mist.  The  grass 
sparkled  with  dewdrops  and  the  glossy 

1  en 


H  BAYOU    T  n  i  s  T  E  €t 

leaves  of  the  crepe  myrtle  trees  glis 
tened  faintly. 

The  encircling  live-oaks  rioted  with 
music,  the  chirp  of  wrens,  the  pert 
twitter  of  sparrows,  the  exquisite  mel 
ody  of  mocking-birds.  From  my  old- 
fashioned  garden  floated  the  mingled 
fragrance  of  sweet  olive,  honeysuckle, 
and  early  roses. 

The  far-away  murmur  of  bells  and 
the  harsher  echo  of  a  butcher's  horn 
announced  that  the  tiny  village  down 
the  bayou  was  waking  to  a  new  day, 
and  the  call  of  cocks  and  anxious 
cackle  of  hens  betrayed  the  poultry- 
yard's  impatience  to  be  up  and  doing. 

Once  a  dog  barked,  and  my  fox 
terrier  courteously  responded ;  then 
from  some  distant  pasture  a  cow  lowed, 
and  a  calf  made  mournful  answer. 

The  world  was  at  its  best,  pure  and 
still  and  tranquil,  unmarred  by  the 
frictions  and  evil  passions  of  the  work 
aday  hours.  I  found  myself  resolving, 
as  I  had  often  resolved  before,  to  make 


HTHE    FUNERAL  €t;- 

a  practice  of  early  rising,  and  won 
dering,  as  I  had  frequently  wondered 
pityingly,  how  people  who  woke  to 
the  noise  and  fret  of  a  city  endured 
their  lives. 

After  drinking  in  the  beauty  and 
peace  until  prudence  warned  me  to 
desist,  I  stole  back  to  bed,  feeling  in 
some  way  strengthened  by  my  silent 
communion  with  Nature. 

A  step  sounded  beneath  my  window, 
a  shuffling,  deliberate  step  that  I  rec 
ognized  as  Uncle  Ephr'um's.  He  was 
on  his  way  to  the  milking-shed,  for  his 
buckets  rattled  as  he  moved.  Evi 
dently  he  was  not  in  the  best  of 
humors ;  his  grumbling  voice  drifted 
in  to  me  : 

"  Allus  levin  dat  gate  open  !  Kawnt 
tun  my  back  widouten  I  fine  de  cows 
done  got  wid  de  calves.  Huccum  you 
ac  so  ?  Youse  farly  honin  fur  a  lickin', 
you  is.  Jes  you  wait  twelst  I  git  you 
home  an'  Ise  gwineter  lik  you  widin 
an  eench  of  yo'  life." 
[3] 


B  A  Y  O  U     T  R I  S  T  E 


"  Tain  my  fault,"  sniffed  Joe  in  re 
turn,  "hits  dat  outdacious  leetle  red 
mar  of  Miss  Mary's ;  she  kin  lif  dat 
hook  ez  good  ez  a  pusson  kin.  I  ain' 
bin  nyar  dat  gate  sence  larst  night." 

"  Boy  1"  Uncle  Ephr'um  responded, 
"  quit  yo'  lyin',  what  ain'  cevin  no- 
boddy,  an'  fotch  dat  stove  wood  'fore 
I  brains  yo'  black  hade." 

Silence  fell,  broken  shortly,  however, 
by  Flip's  frantic  greeting  of  the  butch 
er's  cart,  then  doors  began  to  open  and 
shutters  to  swing  back. 

Priscilla  had  arrived  from  her  cabin 
in  the  pasture,  and  the  day's  life  had 
begun. 

A  bar  of  sunshine  slanted  into  my 
room,  resting  lovingly  on  the  portrait 
over  my  mantel.  It  touched  the  girl's 
white  throat  and  played  among  the 
curls  on  her  forehead ;  it  sparkled  on 
the  crystal  candelabra  and  lingered  a 
moment  on  the  pile  of  old  "  Littells  " 
under  my  table. 

Steps  echoed  down  the  hall,  there 
[4] 


CTHE    FUNERAL^ 

was  a  quick  knock,  and  the  door  opened 
to  admit  Priscilla  with  my  early  coffee. 
I  knew  at  once  that  something  of  a 
pleasant  nature  had  occurred  ;  her  face 
wore  that  expression  of  solemn  enjoy 
ment  characteristic  of  the  negro  when 
under  the  influence  of  emotion. 

"  What  has  happened  ? "  I  inquired. 

"  Zeke  Coleman's  wife  done  dade," 
she  said. 

"  Not  Betsey  ?  " 

"  Yessum." 

"  That  strong,  healthy  creature  ?  It 
doesn't  seem  possible." 

"  Yessum ;  dey  say  she  tuk  cole  at 
Mattie  Fowler's  weddin'.  Ole  Aunt 
Lucy  'tended  her,  but  't  warnt  no  use  ; 
she  wuz  marked  from  de  fus." 

"  Nonsense,  you  ought  to  have  had 
a  doctor." 

"  'T  warnt  no  use,  Miss  Mary.  We 
done  de  bes'  we  knowed  how,  —  me  an' 
Aunt  Lucy  an'  Modeste  Powler.  We 
sot  up  all  las'  night  wid  her,  aprayin'  an' 
'zortin'  an'  singin'  hymns,  but  she  jes 
[5] 


HBAYOU    TR 

lay  dar,  gittin'  weaker  an'  weaker  'fore 
our  eyes." 

"  I  dare  say,"  I  cried.  "  Whoever 
heard  of  such  cruelty  ?  You  know 
too  that  Doctor  Starr  will  come  at  any 
hour." 

"  Miss  Mary,  doctors  is  fur  white 
folks ;  Aunt  Lucy  Allen  onderstans  a 
nigger's  innerds  bettern  enny  doctor 
roun'  hyar,  an'  she  done  de  bes  she 
knowed,  but  Betsey  Coleman  wuz 
marked  from  de  fus." 

I  returned  my  cup  in  silence,  the 
hopelessness  of  argument  being  borne 
in  upon  me. 

"  Zeke  's  gwine  ter  give  her  a  fus'- 
class  funeral,"  pursued  Priscilla ;  "  a 
twenty-dollar  coffin  an'  a  white  cash 
mere  shroud ;  deys  gwine  ter  git  de 
hearse  from  town,  an'  I  hearn  tell  dey 
wuz  'termined  ter  ax  Mr.  Fred  fur  de 
barouche." 

"  Where  will  they  bury  her  ? " 

"  On  de  plantation." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  said,  for  I  had  forgotten 
[6] 


4HTHE      FUNERAL^ 

that,  as  one  of  our  old  slaves,  Betsey 
had  the  privilege  of  burial  in  the  cleared 
space  beyond  our  graveyard. 

"  Deys  gwine  ter  hev  two  preachers, 
Brother  Hicks  from  town  an'  ole  Uncle 
Boston  from  de  Harrell  Place." 

"  Much  it  will  help  Betsey,"  said  I. 
"  If  Zeke  had  been  a  kinder  husband, 
and  you  people  had  had  the  sense  to 
send  for  a  doctor,  there  would  n't  have 
been  any  need  for  all  this  foolishness." 

"Foolishness,  Miss  Mary?  You 
sholy  ain'  meanin'  dat  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  do  too.  Poor  Betsey,  she 
was  the  best  creature  living." 

"  You  ain'  got  enny  ole  black  skirt 
ter  giv  me,  hez  you,  Miss  Mary  ? " 
asked  Priscilla,  following  her  own  train 
of  thought. 

"  Why  ? "  demanded  I.  "  You  are 
not  one  of  the  family." 

"  No  'm,  but  dey  axed  me  ter  see  ter 
things  ginerelly  ;  'sides,  Ise  president  of 
De  United  Band  of  Good  Samaritans, 
an'  wese  gwine  ter  tun  out." 
[7] 


€[  B  A  Y  o  u    T 11 1  s  T  E  €t 

"  You  can  have  my  blazer  suit,"  I 
replied  reluctantly,  for  her  excited 
mood  fretted  me.  "  Now  do  go  on,  for 
at  this  rate  we  11  never  have  breakfast." 

A  moment  later  I  heard  voices  in 
the  yard  and  my  brother's  window 
opened. 

"  Who 's  there  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Me,  Marse  Fred  ;  Zeke  Coleman." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want? " 

"  A  order  fur  forty  dollars,"  in  tones 
of  unction. 

"  Forty  dollars  ?  nearly  all  you  have 
left  of  your  grinding  wages  ;  what  on 
earth  do  you  want  with  it  ?  " 

"  My  wife 's  done  dade  ;  yessir,  died 
las'  night ;  an'  seein'  ez  she  wuz  ole  Jim 
Robinson's  darter,  an'  deys  a  famly 
what 's  sot  on  fine  funerals,  I  lowed  ez 
dey  should  n'  hev  no  chance  ter  sputify 
de  sen'  off  what  I  gives  Betsey." 

"  Now,  Zeke,"  said  the  boyish  voice, 

"  all   this  fuss  and  feathers  won't  do 

Betsey  any  good,  and   you've   got  a 

houseful    of    little   children  to  think 

[8] 


ft  THE    FUNERAL^ 

about ;  so  you  just  give  her  an  every 
day  sort  of  funeral,  and  if  people  make 
remarks  you  can  send  them  to  me." 

Further  conversation  followed,  but 
Fred  was  firm  in  his  refusal  to  advance 
the  money,  and  when  Priscilla  came  in 
later  I  recognized  that  she  was  in  any 
thing  but  a  pleasant  frame  of  mind. 

"  Deys  jes'  gwine  ter  hev  a  cotton 
shroud  an'  a  six-dollar  coffin ! "  she 
said  contemptuously.  "  Lor' !  ef  we  'd 
knowed  dat  dis  mornin'  de  Good  Sa 
maritans  would  n't  hev  tunned  out  at 
all." 

"  Priscilla  ! "  said  I  frigidly,  "  you  're 
a  perfect  snob,  and  I  'm  ashamed  of 
you." 

That  afternoon,  as  Fred  and  I  were 
riding  across  the  fields,  we  met  Betsey's 
funeral  procession  toiling  down  the 
"  big  road  "  to  the  graveyard. 

The  barouche,  containing  the  sor 
rowing  relatives  (whose  grief  was 
somewhat  mitigated  by  their  sense  of 
importance),  followed  the  hearse ;  be- 

[9] 


4HBAYOU 

hind  came  the  plantation  negroes  ;  and 
last,  but  by  no  means  least,  the  United 
Band  of  Good  Samaritans,  with  Pris- 
cilla  at  their  head  —  Priscilla  looking 
so  stylish  in  my  blazer  suit  that  I 
straightway  repented  my  generosity. 

The  entire  procession  was  singing 
(or  chanting  rather)  a  weird  strain  that 
haunted  me  for  days.  The  chorus  I 
have  never  forgotten : 

"  Frum  dis  worl'  of  sin  ter  de  skies  above, 
Frum  dis  worl'  of  pain  ter  de  good  Lord's 
love ! " 

Over  the  bare  fields  floated  the  mu 
sical  sounds,  broken  now  and  then  by 
an  hysterical  "  Glory  !  Glory ! "  from 
Priscilla,  while  in  the  dingy  old  vehicle 
ahead  lay  Betsey,  unconscious  of  and 
indifferent  to  the  ceremonies  in  her 
honor. 

"  Mary,"  said  Fred  the  next  morn 
ing  at  breakfast,  "  Zeke  Coleman  has 
'  vamoosed  the  ranch ' ;  or,  in  language 
more  intelligible  to  you,  has  deserted 
his  children." 

[10] 


4HTHE      FUNERAL^ 

I  stared  at  him  in  amazement. 

"  He  collected  what  was  owing  to 
him  last  night,  ostensibly  to  buy  sup 
plies  and  to  settle  an  old  debt ;  instead 
of  which  he  went  to  Ramon,  took  the 
late  train  to  New  Orleans,  and  has  dis 
appeared,  nobody  knows  whither." 

"  What  a  shame  ! "  I  cried,  "  now 
who  will  take  care  of  those  poor  little 
creatures  ? " 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,"  he  said,  "  Modeste 
and  Dicey  have  already  taken  them  in 
charge,  and  of  course  I  shall  see  that 
they  are  fed." 

He  sauntered  out  of  the  room  just 
as  Priscilla  came  in  to  wash  the  silver. 

I  immediately  grew  eloquent  over 
Zeke's  misconduct,  but  she  treated 
the  subject  with  the  delightful  philoso 
phy  that  is  so  frequently  displayed  over 
other  people's  misfortunes. 

"  Now  don'  you  be  frettin'  over  dem 
chillun,"  she  said  ;  "  dey  ain'  gwine  ter 
starve  dese  days." 

"  Will  you  help  with  them  ? "  I  asked. 

[11] 


HBAYOU 

"You  seemed   so   intimate   with   the 
family/' 

"  I  'd  like  ter,"  she  replied  ;  "  I  'd 
sholy  like  ter,  but  Ise  got  duties  ter 
my  own  chillun  which  don'  allow  of 
no  mixin'  up  wid  oder  folkses." 

"  The    Good    Samaritans,    then,  - 
perhaps  they  will  do  something  ? " 

Priscilla  looked  at  me  compassion 
ately. 

"  Miss  Mary,"  said  she,  in  the  tone 
one  employs  to  an  ignorant  but  well- 
loved  child.  "  You  don'  onderstan'; 
de  Good  Samaritans  don'  do  nothin' 
fur  you  whilest  youse  livin',  deys  'soci- 
ated  fur  de  spress  purpose  of  honorin' 
you  arfter  youse  dade." 


[12] 


II 

THE   MATCH-MAKER 

PRISCILLA  was  rubbing  the 
brasses  and  I  was  sitting  on  the 
back  gallery  watching  her.  Pris- 
cilla,  I  regret  to  say,  did  not  live  her 
life  according  to  biblical  instruction, 
"  not  with  eye  service,  as  men 
pleasers,"  for  I  noted  that  the  most  of 
her  good  work  was  accomplished  under 
the  spell  of  my  inspiring  presence. 

As  she  rubbed  and  polished  she  in 
terpolated  remarks,  some  of  a  purely 
indifferent  character,  others  full  of  mys 
terious  and  doubtless  weighty  meaning. 

I  read  calmly  on,  now  glancing  at 
the  fenders,  now  letting  my  gaze  wan 
der  over  the  yard  where  Flip  was  quar 
relling  with  an  old  shoe.  His  perfectly 
superfluous  activity  fretted  me,  and 
instantly  recalled  a  remark  of  Fred's 
to  the  effect  "  that  the  sight  of  other 
[13] 


people's  energy  always  nerved  him  to 
—  idleness." 

In  an  unwary  moment  I  looked  at 
Priscilla,  caught  her  eye,  and  straight 
way  fell  a  victim  to  her  confidences. 

"  Yessum,"  she  said,  pausing  to 
straighten  the  head  handkerchief  poised 
rakishly  over  her  left  eye ;  "  I  ain'  sayin' 
nothin'  aginst  Modeste  Powler,  but 
youse  bleeged  ter  'low,  Miss  Mary,  dat 
dem  gals  of  hern  ain'  half  so  good-look- 
in'  ez  my  Sally  or  Dicey  Jones'  Lucy." 

I  acquiesced,  for  there  was  no  deny 
ing  the  truth  of  her  statement. 

"Well,  I  reckon  we  ain'  de  onliest 
ones  what  thinks  so ;  but  Modeste 
Powler  hez  done  married  dem  gals  ter 
de  two  bes'  matches  on  de  place. 
Jeems  Hewett,  Mattie's  husband,  'sa 
settled  man  wid  money  in  de  bank,  an' 
Frank  Barnes,  what  married  Cynthy, 
gits  a  dollar  'n  a  quarter  a  day,  an'  Mr. 
Fred  lows  him  ter  keep  a  cow  an'  horse 
in  de  plantation  parstures." 

"Because  Frank  stuck  to  him  through 
[14] 


4H  THE    MATCH-MAKER  H 

the '  strike ',"  I  said  impressively.  Pris- 
cilla  ignored  my  comment. 

"  I  wants  ter  know  what  Modeste 
Powler  duz  ?  "  she  went  on ;  "  hit 's  jes 
like  'kunjerin','  Miss  Mary,  hit  sholy 
is." 

"  They  were  very  nice  girls,"  I  ven 
tured. 

Priscilla  sniffed. 

"  T  warnt  dat,  Miss  Mary,  dey  didn' 
hev  nothin'  ter  do  wid  hit.  Modeste 
done  hit  herself ;  she  's  already  kotched 
two  good  matches  on  de  place,  an'  now 
she 's  sot  her  eye  on  Davy  Masters  fur 
Jinny ! " 

"  Davy  ? "  I  exclaimed,  scarcely  won 
dering  at  Priscilla's  indignation,  for  he 
was  the  most  eligible  bachelor  on  the 
plantation. 

"Yessum;  an'  Jinny's  a  little  no- 
count  nigger  gal,  what  ain'  fitten  fur 
nothin'.  I  reckon,"  with  withering 
sarcasm,  "he  ain'  waited  all  dis  time 
fur  her  1 " 

"  It  often  happens  like  that,"  I  re- 
[15] 


€L  BAYOU    T 11 1  s  T  E  H 

marked  unconsolingly.  "  By  the  way," 
looking  in  the  direction  of  the  yard- 
gate,  "  yonder  comes  Modeste  now." 

Priscilla  gathered  up  her  brasses, 
"  Ise  gwine  ter  put  dese  back,"  she 
said,  and  disappeared  just  as  Modeste 
came  lumbering  up  the  steps. 

She  was  a  tall,  ungainly  woman,  as 
black  as  the  ace  of  spades,  slow  of 
speech  and  usually  accounted  slow  of 
intellect,  with  a  cheerful  smile  and  a 
confiding  manner  that  was  exceedingly 
gratifying  to  your  self-esteem.  She 
gave  you  the  impression  of  standing 
mentally  in  awe  of  you,  and  by  her 
attitude  disposed  you  favorably  towards 
her  at  once. 

As  she  sat  down  on  the  step  and 
began  mopping  her  face  with  her  blue- 
checked  apron,  Priscilla's  suspicions  of 
"  kunjerin'  "  seemed  singularly  inap 
propriate. 

"  How 's  your  garden,  Modeste  ? "  I 
asked,  by  way  of  opening  the  con 
versation. 

[16] 


HTHE    MATCH-MAKER  €£ 

"Right  smart,  thank  you,  Miss  Mary. 
I  fetched  you  a  mess  of  green  peas," 
removing  the  cover  from  a  small  tin 
bucket ;  "an' nex'  week  I  lows  to  fetch 
you  some  butter  beans." 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  I  said. 
"Priscilla,"  as  that  worthy  appeared, 
"  take  these  peas  to  the  pantry  and  fill 
Modeste's  bucket  with  sugar.  The 
key  is  on  the  post." 

Priscilla  swept  up,  and  the  "  Evenin', 
Sister  Powler,"  and  the  "Evenin',  Sister 
Wilson,"  that  followed  reminded  me 
forcibly  of  the  greeting  between  two 
pugilists. 

When  Priscilla  had  gone  I  remarked 
tentatively,  "  I  hear  Jinny  is  going  to 
be  married." 

Modeste's  indifferent  manner  would 
have  done  credit  to  any  society  dame. 
"Yessum,"  she  said,  without  any  ex 
pression  of  satisfaction  even  momen 
tarily  lighting  up  her  features. 

"  Is  it  true  that  Davy  is  to  be  the 
bridegroom  ? " 

2  [17] 


4HBAYOU    T 

"Yessum,"  with  even  less  anima 
tion. 

The  monosyllabic  reply  tried  my 
patience. 

I  longed  to  hear  more  of  the  affair, 
to  see  some  sign  of  gratification  from 
Modeste,  to  know  she  felt  elated  even 
though  she  did  not  show  it ;  but  dignity 
forbade  further  questioning.  Perhaps 
she  felt  this,  for  she  turned  slowly 
around. 

"  Davy  said  he  warn't  never  gwine 
ter  marry,"  she  observed. 

"  He  reckoned  without  you,"  I 
replied. 

"  I  never  sets  eye  on  a  man  fur 
nothin',"  she  said.  "  Dar  wuz  Jeems 
Hewett  —  a  widower  —  set  aginst  mar- 
ryin'  agin.  I  choosed  him  fur  Mattie 
de  fus'  day  he  sot  foot  on  de  planta 
tion.  Den  dar  wuz  Frank  Barnes,  he 
wuz  hangin'  roun'  Priscilla's  Sally  right 
smart  like ;  when  I  heerd  tell  'bout  his 
horse  an'  cow  I  'spicioned  he  'd  do  fur 
Cynthy.  Den  dar  wuz  Davy  Mas- 
[18] 


41  THE    MATCH-MAKE ii  C 

ters — "  She  paused,  but  her  smile 
said  all  the  rest. 

I  gazed  at  her  in  speechless  admira 
tion.  Priscilla  said  "  she  had  sot  her 
eye  on  Davy,"  and  it  seemed  she  was 
not  far  wrong. 

Through  the  kitchen  window  floated 
Priscilla's  voice : 

"  When  de  hyart  is  sad  't  is  a  jye  ter  know 
Dere  's  a  better  worl'  dan  dis  worl'  below." 

I  smiled  involuntarily  and  Modeste 
listened  with  a  pensive  air  ;  evidently 
she  had  no  qualms  of  conscience. 

"  Do  you  mean,"  I  said,  "  that  you 
actually  decide  a  long  time  ahead  who 
you  want  your  girls  to  marry  ? " 

"Yessum,  an'  hit's  de  right  thing; 
dere  ain'  no  mistakes  den." 

In  some  mysterious  way  she  had 
caught  the  spirit  of  the  old  French 
regime,  and  was  in  thorough  sympathy 
with  the  manage  de  convenance. 

Priscilla's  tones  rang  out  with  in 
creased  earnestness :  - 
[19] 


"  Dough  de  sinners  thrive  in  dis  worl'  of  sin, 
Sain'  Peter  ain'  gwine  fur  ter  let  'em  in  !  " 

"  Well,  but  it 's  one  thing  to  pick 
out  a  man,"  I  observed,  "  and  another 
to  have  him  do  what  you  want." 

"  Lor  !  Miss  Mary,  I  warn't  born 
yistedday,  an'  arfter  I  makes  up  my 
mine  'bout  him,  I  axes  him  'roun'  Sun 
day  nights.  I  reckon  you  ain'  forgot 
how  I  kin  cook  ? " 

"I  certainly  haven't,"  I  replied, 
recalling  childish  trips  to  her  cabin, 
and  the  coffee  and  biscuits  that  had 
gladdened  my  youthful  appetite. 

"  Well,  I  'members  all  I  useter 
know,  an'  spare-ribs  an'  chine  an'  pig's  - 
feet  ain'  gwine  abeggin'  arfter  I  gits 
thru  handlin'  'em." 

"  Modeste,"  said  I,  in  low,  awe 
struck  tones,  "is  that  what  you  do 
with  your  pigs  ?  " 

"  Yessum,  an'  some  folks  say  hit 's  a 
norful  wase,  but  I  dunno." 

"  An  excellent  investment !  "  said  I, 
and  my  mind  went  back  to  the  chafing- 
[20] 


€[THE    MATCH-MAKER  €£ 

dish  parties  and  petits-soupers  that 
some  of  my  acquaintances  indulged  in. 
Their  methods,  I  could  not  but  admit, 
were  strikingly  similar. 

"  Do  you  invite  any  girls  ? "  I  de 
manded. 

Modeste  looked  at  me  reproachfully. 

"  What  I  gwine  ax  enny  gals  fur, 
Miss  Mary  ?  No  'm ;  I  suttenly  never 
killed  my  pigs  fur  a  passel  of  no-count 
nigger  gals.  Womens  is  curious  things, 
ennyhow,  deys  ongrateful  all  thru. 
You  duz  fur  a  man  an'  you  knows 
whar  you  is,  but  you  duz  fur  a  woman 
an'  whar  is  you  ? " 

I  nodded  appreciatively.  Modeste's 
analysis  though  crude  was  effective. 

"  Chine  and  pig's-feet  and  spare-ribs," 
I  repeated  thoughtfully,  for  I  wished  to 
retail  the  menu  to  Fred  later.  "  Was 
that  all,  Modeste?" 

"  Yessum,  ceppen  todes  de  las',  when 
things  wuz  kinder  settlin'  down,  Tom 
fetched  out  he  whiskey  bottle." 

I  looked  at  Modeste,  gaunt  and 
[21] 


black  and  awkward,  and  did  homage 
to  her  talents.  How  could  Priscilla 
and  Dicey  Jones  cope  with  such  an 
intellect?  I  had  it  in  my  heart  to  pity 
them,  the  contest  was  such  an  unequal 
one. 

"Well,  Miss  Mary,"  said  Modeste, 
rising,  "  Ise  bleeged  ter  be  gwine.  I 
jes'  drapped  in  ter  say  *  Howdy.' '' 

"  Modeste,"  said  I,  longing  in  my 
humble  way  to  show  recognition  of 
her  successful  campaign,  "tell  Jinny 
she  can  have  my  old  white  silk  for  her 
wedding-dress  if  she  will  come  for  it." 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Mary.  I  tole 
Jinny  you  would  n'  furgit  her." 

"  By  the  way,"  said  I,  "  don't  neg 
lect  to  stop  at  the  kitchen  for  your 
bucket." 

A  few  minutes  later  I  saw  her  mov 
ing  slowly  down  the  "  big  road "  to 
the  quarters. 

Priscilla's    song    had    ceased ;    evi 
dently  the  thought  of  joys  in  another 
world  did  not  wholly  compensate  her 
[22] 


M  ATCH-MAKEE,  €t 

for  the  trials  and  disappointments  of 
this  one. 

Her  youngest  son,  a  Benjamin  of 
four,  having  come  within  injudicious 
range  of  her  wrath,  was  requested  to 
quit  the  kitchen  at  once  unless  he 
wanted  her  to  "  brain  him  with  a  coal," 
and  the  pans  and  pots  flew  about  in  a 
way  that  was  anything  but  orthodox. 

Fred,  coming  whistling  up  the  steps, 
called  to  me  to  know  what  had  ruffled 
the  serene  spirit  of  our  handmaid. 

"Modeste  has  been  here,"  I  ex 
plained.  "  Jinny  is  going  to  marry 
Davy  Masters,  and  Priscilla  feels  it 
keenly." 

"  Davy  going  to  be  married  ? "  ex 
claimed  my  brother.  "  Good  for  little 
Jinny." 

"  Jinny  ! "  said  I  scornfully  ;  "  much 
she  had  to  do  with  it." 

"  What  is  troubling  you,  Mary  ?  " 
cried  Fred.  "  You  look  pensive." 

"  I  am  mentally  prostrate." 

"  Before  whom  ? " 

[23] 


4HBAYOU 

"  Modeste  Powler." 

"  Modeste  !  Do  you  think  she  had 
anything  to  do  with  that  match  ? 
Why,  she  's  as  dull  as  ditch-water." 

"  Dull,"  I  echoed  ;  "  my  good  sir, 
you  don't  know  the  meaning  of  the 
word." 


[24] 


Ill 

THE  COURTSHIP 

I  WAS    conversing    with   Priscilla 
on   the  subject  of  cobwebs,  —  a 
conversation  not  altogether  of   a 
pleasant  character,   for  she   had  just 
informed  me  that  she  "  was  too  busy 
keepin'  her  soul    clean  ter   keep    de 
house    clean,"    and   I   was   about    to 
make  a  fitting  response,  —  when  Char 
lotte  Deals,  old  Peter  Deals'  daughter, 
appeared  in  the  door. 

Charlotte  was  a  weazened  little 
creature  with  a  pathetic  expression 
that  always  appealed  to  me,  so  when 
I  saw  her  hesitating  in  the  door  I 
straightway  forgot  my  grievances  and 
called  to  her  to  come  in. 

She  wore  a  blue  calico  skirt,  a  pink 
silk  waist  that  had  once  been  mine,  and 
a  man's  overcoat. 

[25] 


4HBAYOU 

Her  shoes  were  laced  with  white 
strings,  and  her  hair  wrapped  in  in 
numerable  twists  over  her  head.  Alto 
gether  she  was  not  picturesque-looking, 
and,  as  much  as  I  liked  her,  I  was  fain 
to  confess  that  her  appearance  left 
much  to  be  desired. 

But  I  was  always  glad  to  see  her, 
for  in  the  gay,  lighted-hearted  past 
she  had  been  the  only  "  quarters " 
child  I  was  allowed  to  play  with,  and 
the  memory  of  glorious  blackberry 
parties  and  crayfishing  expeditions 
successfully  engineered  by  her  was 
with  me  still. 

Priscilla  did  not  approve  of  Char 
lotte  ;  she  said  she  was  "  common," 
that  old  Peter  was  "  de  no-countedest 
nigger  on  de  place,  an'  her  ma'  —  " 

"Not  a  word  against  Ellen,"  I 
would  always  break  in.  "  She  was 
with  grandmother  when  she  died,  and 
mother  told  me  that  no  friend  could 
have  been  kinder." 

So  Charlotte  continued  to  call  on 
[26] 


C^THE    COURTSHIP*!, 

me,  sometimes  to  bring  me  a  water 
melon  or  a  bucket  of  berries,  some 
times  merely  to  say  "  Howdy,"  and  now 
and  then  to  unburden  her  heart  of  its 
woes. 

For  hers  was  not  a  path  of  roses. 
The  negro  women  on  the  plantation 
were  as  ready  to  laugh  at  failure  as 
their  more  cultivated  superiors  are,  and 
Charlotte,  clumsy,  slow,  and  timid, 
was  a  legitimate  target  for  their 
ridicule. 

To-day  I  guessed  she  had  come  to  me 
for  sympathy,  so  dismissing  Priscilla 
—  who  departed  sniffing  —  I  invited 
Charlotte  onto  the  front  gallery,  where 
she  might  talk  at  her  ease. 

"  What 's  the  matter  now  ?  "  I  asked, 
sitting  down  on  the  steps  and  leaning 
my  head  against  a  pillar ;  "  has  any  one 
been  worrying  you  ? " 

Charlotte  hesitated  : 

"  Deys  all  mad  aginst  me,"  she  said  ; 
"  dey   sho  is  rarin',  but   dis  time  hit 
don'  mek  no  diffrunce." 
[27] 


"  It  does  n't  ?  "  said  I  approvingly. 
"  Well,  I  'm  glad  to  hear  it ;  you  know 
how  often  I  Ve  told  you  it  was  silly  to 
mind  them.  What 's  the  trouble  ? " 

My  glance  had  strayed  away,  but  as 
Charlotte  made  no  immediate  reply  I 
turned  in  some  surprise  to  look  at  her. 

"  Charlotte,"  cried  I,  "  what  has  hap 
pened  ? "  For  her  black  face  fairly 
beamed  and  her  dull  eyes  shone  with 
a  great  happiness. 

"  Miss  Mary,"  she  said  in  a  shaking 
voice,  "  Ise  ingaged  ter  be  married." 

Now,  I  had  always  known  that  to 
betray  surprise  over  an  announcement 
of  this  kind,  no  matter  how  amazing 
it  might  be,  was  exceedingly  bad  form, 
and  among  my  friends  I  had  hitherto 
managed  to  remember  this  rule ;  but 
when  Charlotte's  news  fell  upon  my 
incredulous  ears  I  regret  to  say  that 
my  good-breeding  suddenly  failed  me. 

"  Engaged  ?  "    I    repeated,    staring. 
"To whom?"  ("Some  perfect  terror," 
I  thought  disgustedly.) 
[28] 


€£THE    COURTSHIP  4H 

"  Ter  Lincoln  Wilson,"  she  answered. 

"  Lincoln,"  I  cried  ;  "  not  Priscilla's 
Lincoln  ? " 

"  Yessum." 

"  Oh,  sweet  revenge  !  "  I  murmured, 
"  *  The  mills  of  the  gods  grind  slowly, 
but  they  grind  exceeding  small.' " 

"  Ma'am  ? "  said  Charlotte. 

"  Nothing,"  I  replied  ;  "  tell  me  how 
it  happened."  For  that  Lincoln,  Pris 
cilla's  pride  and  boast,  —  Lincoln,  who 
taught  school  on  the  Harrell  place, 
and  who  was  studying  to  be  a 
"  preacher,"  — should  contemplate  mar 
rying  old  Peter  Deals'  Charlotte, 
seemed  well-nigh  incredible. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  I  said. 

"  Hit  happened  like  dis,"  said  Char 
lotte.  "Ma's  sister  Dinah, --you 
members  Dinah,  Miss  Mary  ? " 

I  nodded.  Was  I  likely  to  forget 
her!  She  of  the  oily  tongue  and 
elastic  conscience,  whose  short-lived 
reign  over  my  laundry  had  driven  me 
almost  to  despair. 

[291 


€1  BAYOU    TmsTE«H 

"  Well,  ma's  sister  Dinah,  what  lives 
on  de  Harrell  place,  tuk  seeck,  an' 
sont  over  ter  ma  ter  sen  one  of  we-all 
gals  ter  miss  her." 

"And  the  others  wouldn't  go  and 
you  did  ? "  I  broke  in. 

"Why,  yessum,"  cried  Charlotte. 
"  Now,  how  did  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  just  guessed  it,  go  on  —  this  is  a 
story  with  a  moral." 

Charlotte  very  wisely  paid  no  atten 
tion  to  me  but  pursued  her  narrative  : 

"  Well,  I  went,  an'  Lor'  knows  I  seed 
sights  wid  her.  She 's  a  church  mem 
ber,  but  hit  don'  seem  ter  mek  no 
diffrunce,  an'  her  langwidge  sho  wuz 
contraptious. 

"  One  night  she  tuk  hit  in  her  hade 
she  'd  like  ter  see  a  preacher,  'n  when 
I  lowed  dere  wuznt  none  I  cud  git, 
she  sez  Lincoln  Wilson,  what  taught 
school  in  de  cabin  back  of  de  sugar- 
house,  wuz  larnin'  ter  be  one,  an'  he  'd 
do  bettern  nothin',  so  I  went  overn 
got  him"  —  she  paused  and  drew  a 
[30] 


€t  T  H  E    COURT  SHI  p<H 

long  breath.  "  Hez  you  ever  seed 
him,  Miss  Mary  ?  " 

"  Not  for  a  long  time." 

"  He  wears  sto'  close  an'  a  shinin' 
collar,  an'  a  tie  wid  a  dimon'  pin,  an'  he 
talks  book  talk  what  I  kawnt  mek  no 
sense  out  of." 

"  Ah  !  he  must  be  up  to  date,"  said 
I  ;  "to  be  incomprehensible  is  to  be 
clever  nowadays." 

"  Ma'am  ? "  said  Charlotte. 

"  Nothing ;  go  on." 

"  Well,  he  cum  like  I  axed  him,  an' 
he  read  reel  cumfortin'  like  outn  de 
Bible,  'bout  the  prodigy  son  an'  de 
century  man  what  sez  ter  one  man 
'  cum '  an'  he  cumd,  an'  ter  anoder 
pusson  '  go  '  an'  he  goed,  an'  den  Aunt 
Dinah  gun  ter  snore  in  de  middle  of 
de  chapter,  an'  Lincoln  he  close  de 
book  an'  axed  me  ter  set  by  de  fire  an' 
tell  him  'bout  you-alls  and  de  folks  at 
us  house  an'  he  ma  an'  de  chillun." 

"  Which  of  course  you  did  ? " 

"  Yessum ;  an'  de  nex'  night  he  cum 
[31] 


TRISTE«Q; 

agin',  an'  den  every  night  fur  three 
weeks.  I  'lowed  ez  he  wuz  reel  good 
ter  Aunt  Dinah,  but  she  say  now  dat 
she  'spicioned  frum  de  fus  dat  he  hed 
he  eye  on  me." 

"Did  you  think  so  too,  Charlotte  ?" 

"  Oh,  go  long,  Miss  Mary,"  she  said. 
"  What  he  gwine  look  at  me  fur  ?  I 
ain'  no  fancy  nigger ;  I  kawnt  do  nothin' 
but  clean  house  an'  cook  an'  wash." 

"  That 's  a  good  deal,"  I  said  admir 
ingly  ;  "  good  looks,  you  know,  are  only 
skin-deep." 

"  Dey  goes  a  long  way,"  she  an 
swered,  with  the  wistfulness  of  one 
who  had  never  known  beauty  ;  "  how- 
somever,  hit's  all  de  same  now." 

"  Did  you  talk  much,  Charlotte  ? " 
I  asked,  thirsting  to  know  the  methods 
which  had  procured  her  the  "  catch  " 
of  the  Harrells'  quarters. 

"  No  'm,  I  ain'  sayin'  nothin'.  I 
jes'  sot  an'  listent  whilest  he  argified." 

"You  let  him  see  how  smart  you 
thought  he  was." 

[32] 


CotJRTSHIP<t 

"  Oh,  yessum." 

My  gaze  rested  thoughtfully  on  Char 
lotte  ;  had  I  not,  after  all,  underrated 
her? 

"  Kate  was  right,"  I  observed  ;  "  she 
said  a  pot  of  incense  was  more  effective 
than  anything  else,  and  I  believe  she 
knew." 

"  Ma'am  ? "  said  Charlotte. 

"What  did  he  say  when  he  asked 
you  to  marry  him  ? " 

"Hit  wuz  kinder  suddint,  Miss  Mary. 
I  wuz  cookin'  a  possum  what  Mr.  Rafe 
Harrell  shot  in  he  hin-house  an'  sont 
ter  Aunt  Dinah.  I  wuz  bakin'  hit  wid 
sweet  'taters,  an'  hit  sho  did  smell  good. 
Lincoln  he  sez  ter  me,  sez  he,  '  Char 
lotte,  you  ain'  nothin'  on  looks,  an'  I 
'lows  folks  '11  spect  me  ter  do  better, 
but  you  sho  duz  know  how  ter  cook. 
Charlotte,'  sez  he,  an'  he  cum  over  ter 
de  hyarth  whar  I  wuz  stand  in',  '  Ise 
bin  onsettled  in  my  mine  'bout  you  fur 
a  long  time,  but  Ise  'cided  now ;  will 
you  hev  me  ? ' 

3  [33] 


"  And  did  you  say  *  yes  '  at  once  ?  " 
I  asked,  hoping  to  hear  of  some  exhi 
bition  of  spirit. 

"  Yessum,"  said  Charlotte.  "  I  sho 
wuz  glad  ter  git  him,  an'  ef  a  gal  wants 
ter  marry  a  feller  huccome  she  play 
like  she  don'  wan'  him  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  why,"  I  said  mus 
ingly.  "  When  do  you  expect  to  be 
married  ?  " 

"  Nex'  week  ;  I  'lowed  ez  hit  wuz 
bes'  ter  hev  hit  right  off  'fore  he  kin 
change  he  mine." 

"O  Charlotte,"  I  exclaimed,  "you 
ought  n't  to  be  so  suspicious." 

"  Miss  Mary,  "  replied  Charlotte,  "  ef 
I  wuz  good-lookin',  like  you,  I  reckon 
I  would  n'  be  afeered  ;  but,  bein'  ez  hit 
is,  Ise  gwine  ter  run  things  thru  — 

"  Have  you  told  Priscilla  yet  ?  " 

"  No  'm,"  and  into  her  eyes  came  an 
expression  that  boded  ill  for  Priscilla ; 
"but  Ise  gwine  ter,  an'  dere  ain'  no 
use  of  her  rarin',  kase  I  tends  to  marry 
Lincoln,  no  matter  what  he  ma  sez." 
[34] 


COURTSHIP  ft 

I  arose  and  invited  Charlotte  indoors, 
and  when  she  departed  a  few  minutes 
later  she  carried  a  bundle  of  my  cast- 
off  finery. 

On  her  way  out  she  stopped  at  the 
kitchen  to  break  the  tidings  to  her 
future  mother-in-law. 

I  meanwhile  had  fled  to  the  garden, 
knowing  that  Priscilla  would  soon 
seek  me  to  rave  against  Charlotte,  and 
I  disappeared,  hoping  thereby  to  escape 
her. 

Vain  thought ! 

I  was  stretched  on  a  bench,  staring 
through  the  branches  at  the  soft  sky 
overhead,  when  the  garden-gate  clicked, 
and  down  the  path,  her  head-handker 
chief  tilted  to  one  side,  her  eyes  flam 
ing,  came  the  bridegroom's  mother. 

"  Priscilla,"  I  cried,  collecting  all  my 
moral  strength  to  grapple  with  her.  "  I 
won't  hear  a  word  against  Charlotte  ! " 

"  Miss  Mary,"  said  Priscilla,  in  a 
voice  of  concentrated  bitterness,  "  dat 
gal's  done  hoodooed  my  boy.  He 
[35] 


TRISTE€[ 

never 'd  looked  at  her  widout  hit. 
She's  done  kunjered  him." 

"Nonsense,  all  mothers  think  that. 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  think  Charlotte 
is  more  to  be  pitied  than  your  son. 
From  what  I  hear  he  must  be  a  very 
vain  fellow,  and  that  kind  does  n't  usu 
ally  make  good  husbands." 

"  Miss  Mary  ! "  wailed  Priscilla. 

"  Yes,  I  mean  it ;  now  do  go  away, 
you  make  my  head  ache." 

So  Priscilla  departed,  vowing  ven 
geance  and  swearing  to  break  off  the 
match,  but  she  reckoned  without  her 
host.  Charlotte,  having  tasted  the 
sweets  of  victoiy,  fought  nobly  for  her 
rights,  and  in  the  end  won  the  day. 

She  was  married  in  the  big  ware 
house  on  the  bayou,  and,  as  Fred  and 
I  both  approved  of  the  bride,  we  made 
it  a  very  grand  affair  indeed. 

Priscilla  was  not  present,  Lincoln's 
mesalliance  proving  too  severe  a  blow 
to  her  pride. 

For  some   time  after  the   marriage 


4H  THE  COURTSHIP  4H 

she  held  coldly  aloof,  but  the  follow 
ing  spring  Fred  gave  Charlotte  an 
opossum  he  had  killed  in  the  stable, 
and  Priscilla  told  me  next  day  she  had 
been  invited  to  partake  of  it. 

"  An'  dat  gal  sho'  do  know  how  ter 
cook,"  she  observed. 

I  repeated  the  conversation  later  to 
Fred. 

"  Praise  from  Sir  Hubert,"  he  com 
mented. 

"  They  will  be  reconciled,"  said  I. 
"Priscilla  is  of  the  earth  earthy,  and 
Charlotte  knows  it." 

"  Charlotte,"  he  remarked,  "  is  not 
clever,  and  yet  — 

"  Real  cleverness,"  I  said,  "  is  com- 
-  prehension  of  the  situation." 

"  Or  the  individual,"  suggested  he. 

"Yes." 

"From  a  woman's  point  of  view, 
Mary." 

"  And  that,"  said  I,  "  is  sure  to  be 
the  right  one." 

[37] 


IV 

THE  CHAPERON 

WHEN  I  opened  the  window 
and  a  delicious  rush  of  fra 
grance  swept  in,  I  said  aloud 
and  with  a  little  sigh  of  rapture : 

"  Ah,  if  only  Kate  were  here  ! " 

"  Kate  !  "  cried  Fred,  who  was  seated 
on  the  back  gallery  doctoring  Flip's 
paw,  "  why,  you  could  n't  pay  her  to 
leave  town." 

"  I  don't  see  why,  now  that  Lent 
has  come." 

"  As  if  that  counts  ! " 

"  But  it  does  ;  you  never  do  Kate 
justice,  Fred.  She  may  be  fond  of 
society  and  all  that  kind  of  thing,  but 
I  hardly  wonder,  considering  how  pop 
ular  she  is." 

"  Nor  I  ;  therefore  don't  try  to 
transport  her  to  these  wilds." 

"  But  she  loves  the  country." 
[38] 


<H  T  H  E    C  H  A  p  E  n  o  N  ft 

"  Her  idea  of  the  country  is  a  per 
petual  house-party.  If  I  thought  she 
would  enjoy  our  life  here,  I  would  have 
a  very  different  opinion  of  her." 

Kate  was  our  cousin  and  an  especial 
favorite  of  mine,  so  that  Fred's  com 
ments  were  by  no  means  well  received. 
"  She 's  charming,"  he  went  on,  "  and 
if  I  were  worth  a  million  or  if  the  plan 
tation  were  out  of  debt,  I  might  let 
myself  see  her  through  your  eyes  ;  but 
as  it  is  -  "  he  drew  a  long  breath  and 
gave  Flip's  paw  a  thoughtful  pat. 

I  stood  at  the  window  staring,  the 
possibility  of  Fred's  caring  for  Kate 
never  having  entered  my  head.  I  was 
about  to  voice  my  surprise  when  Joe, 
our  small  factotum,  sauntered  round 
the  corner  of  the  house. 

Fred  immediately  accosted  him. 
"  Have  you  curried  Gypsey,  Joe  ? " 
"  No,  sir,  I  was  jes'  fixin'  ter  do  hit." 
"  Ah,  indeed  !  and  fed  the  cows  ?  " 
"  Not  yit,  Mass  Fred.    I  wuz  bleeged 
ter  go  ter  town  fur  Aunt  Sylla,  'an  de 
[39] 


C;BAYOU    TRISTEC; 

tellygraf  man  hailed  me  ez  I  was  passin' 
an'  guv  me  dis  fur  you." 

"Dis"  was  a  telegram,  but  Fred 
opened  it  leisurely  and  I  looked  on 
without  alarm,  for  we  were  alone  in 
the  world  and  the  yellow  envelope 
was  not  likely  to  contain  ill  news. 

"It's  from  Kate,"  cried  Fred,  "to 
you,  Mary;  I  didn't  notice  when  I 
opened  it." 

"  Will  be  out  on  noon  train  ;  bored 
to  death  in  town." 

"  Is  n't  that  like  her  ?  "  I  cried.  "  I 
wrote  and  asked  her  last  week ;  now 
sir,"  triumphantly,  "  what  have  you  to 
say  for  yourself  ?  " 

"  It 's  a  caprice,"  he  replied  ;  "  she  '11 
be  flying  home  again  in  no  time. 
Well,  I  must  be  getting  into  the  fields. 
Don't  wait  breakfast  for  me." 

"  Yes  I  shall,  so  don't  you  dare  to 
be  late  ;  I  'm  hungry  now.  Priscilla," 
at  the  top  of  my  voice.  "  O  Priscilla," 
as  she  appeared  in  the  door ;  "  catch 
the  little  red  rooster  and  one  of  those 
[40] 


4HTHE    CHAPERON€£ 

white  pullets.     Miss    Kate   Faulkner 
is  coming  out  from  town  to-day." 

"  You  don'  sesso  ! "  she  cried  cor 
dially,  for  fortunately  inhospitality  is 
not  one  of  my  follower's  too  numerous 
failings.  "  You  Joe,  Jim,  Benjie ! 
Whar  on  airth  is  them  boys  ? " 

"  In  the  stable,  of  course  ;  I  see  Joe 
now.  You  Joe,  come  here  this  minute. 
Priscilla  wants  you  to  catch  the 
chickens  for  dinner." 

"  Kin  we  take  Flip,  Miss  Mary  ? " 
"  Certainly  not,  he  has  hurt  his  paw." 
I  went   indoors  and  presently  wild 
cackling  followed  by  a  series  of  agonized 
squawks    announced    the   triumphant 
conclusion  of  the  hunt. 

My  mind  was  therefore  at  rest  on 
one  point,  and  by  the  time  Fred  re 
turned  I  had  arranged  such  a  credit 
able  menu  that  even  Priscilla,  who 
did  not  believe  in  prophesying  smooth 
things,  was  gracious  enough  to  say 
that  I  might  in  time  "  larn  how  ter 
keep  house." 

[41] 


ftBAYOU      TRISTE41 

When  the  noon  train  pulled  into 
the  station  Fred  was  waiting  on  the 
platform,  while  I  remained  in  the  car 
riage  to  hold  the  reins.  It  seemed  to 
me  he  had  been  gone  an  interminable 
time,  and  I  had  just  resigned  myself  to 
believing  that  Kate  had  failed  us,  when 
down  the  steps,  looking  the  picture  of 
graceful,  beautiful  youth,  came  our 
cousin. 

I  had  always  thought  her  the  pret 
tiest  creature  in  the  world,  and  I 
thought  so  more  than  ever  when  I  saw 
the  flush  on  her  cheek,  the  light  in  her 
eyes  as  she  rushed  to  meet  me. 

"You  dear  old  thing,"  she  cried, 
springing  in  beside  me  ;  "  I  can't  hug 
you,  because  those  stupid  people  are 
too  near,  but  just  wait  until  we  reach 
home ! " 

Home !  I  glanced  at  Fred,  and 
though  he  seemed  absorbed  in  the  dis 
position  of  Kate's  traps  I  felt  sure  he 
had  heard. 

"  So  you  were  bored  to  death,"  I 
[42] 


CL  THE    CHAPERON<H 

said,  looking  searchingly  into  her 
eyes.  "What  change  has  come  over 
the  spirit  of  your  dream  ? " 

"  People,  my  dear  girl.  Town  was 
all  right,  but  I  Ve  seen  too  much  of  my 
kind  lately.  Why,  what  has  become 
of  the  old  Rainot  house?  It  used 
to  stand  there." 

"  You  remember  it  ?  "  asked  Fred 
in  surprise. 

"Remember  it?  Why,  of  course. 
Dear  me,"  as  we  crossed  the  ramp 
by  the  saw-mill,  "how  high  the 
bayou  is." 

"  Awfully  so  1 "  said  Fred.  "  Who 
knows,  we  may  be  able  to  show  you 
a  crevasse  before  you  go  back.  Noth 
ing  like  new  sensations,  they  say." 

Kate  looked  at  him  pensively. 
"Does  he  often  get  like  that?"  she 
asked. 

Fred  laughed  in  spite  of  himself,  and 

when  a  few  minutes  later  we  turned 

in   at   our   own    gates    he   said    with 

his    accustomed   cheerfulness,   "  Here 

[43] 


TRISTE  €t 

we  are,  Kate.     Remember !  who  enters 
Southmeade  leaves  society  behind." 

"  Thank  Heaven  ! "  she  replied,  and 
in  her  voice  there  was  a  ring  of  genuine 
relief. 

"  I  know  you  will  be  sorry,"  I  said 
to  her  an  hour  or  so  later,  "  but  Fred 
is  obliged  to  go  to  Ramon  to-night, 
so  you  and  I  will  be  left  lamenting." 

Kate  was  seated  at  the  window  and 
for  a  moment  she  made  no  reply,  then 
she  said  in  a  curiously  hesitating  way 
and  with  apparent  irrelevance  : 

"  Did  that  silly  little  Jimmy  Barnett 
tell  your  brother  I  was  engaged  to 
Lieutenant  Carew  ? " 

"  Jimmy  Barnett  ?  Lieutenant 
Carew  ?  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  ;  is 
it  true,  Kate  ? " 

"  Of  course  not ;  who  ever  heard  of 
such  a  thing?  But  that  foolish  little 
Jimmy  very  impertinently  went  round 
saying  so,  and  among  other  people 
he  told  me  he  had  written  it  to  your 
brother." 

[44] 


€t  T  H  E    CHAPERON  €£, 

"  He  probably  said  that  to  tease 
you.  Fred  never  told  me  anything 
about  it." 

"  Well,  I  only  mentioned  it  as  an 
example  of  what  we  can  do  in  town. 
So,"  springing  up,  "  you  and  I  are  to 
be  left  in  our  glory ;  two  lone  ladies 
with  no  one  to  say  us  '  Nay.' ' 

"  Alone  ?  Do  you  think  I  'm  crazy  1 
Why,  I  should  die  of  fright ;  besides, 
Fred  would  n't  hear  to  such  a  thing. 
No,  Aunt  Margaret  is  coming  up  to 
stay  with  us." 

"  To  be  our  chaperon  !  Dear  old 
Mammy  Margaret,  how  well  I  re 
member  her." 

"  You  need  n't  laugh,"  I  said.  "  I 
suspect  she  has  more  correct  ideas  than 
many  a  society  leader." 

"  My  dear  girl,  let  us  hope  so." 

"  Listen,"  I  said.  "  Wheels  !  that 
must  be  Mammy  now.  You  know  I 
always  send  the  carriage  for  her  on 
occasions  like  this  ;  it  is  a  sort  of  official 
recognition  of  her  status." 
[45] 


T 11 1  s  T  E  H 

Dear  old  Mammy.  I  have  only  to 
close  my  eyes  to  see  again  the  little 
bent  figure,  the  wrinkled  black  face, 
and  kindly  eyes  that  never  looked  any 
thing  but  affection  on  her  children. 

When  Kate  and  I  reached  the 
gallery  she  had  just  been  helped  up  the 
steps  by  Joe,  who  stood  in  great  awe 
of  her. 

She  was  dressed,  as  she  always  was, 
in  a  black  alpaca  skirt  and  calico 
sacque.  A  faded  brown  shawl  was 
pinned  over  her  shoulders,  and  a  spot 
less  apron  was  tied  about  her  waist. 
On  her  head  was  a  black  bonnet  with 
a  violet  ribbon,  and  at  her  throat  the 
pin  Fred  and  I  had  given  her  years 
ago. 

Heavy  gold  rings  hung  in  her  ears, 
and  a  bit  of  ribbon  on  her  breast 
announced  her  membership  in  that 
exclusive  organization,  "  The  United 
Band  of  Good  Samaritans." 

When  I  rushed  towards  her  she 
gathered  me  in  her  arms  and  held  me 
[46] 


4HTHE    CHAPERONC; 

close,  just  as  she  was  wont  to  do  when 
as  a  little  child  I  fled  to  her  to  be 
comforted. 

"  Honey,"  she  said,  looking  at  me 
with  loving  eyes,  "  huccome  you  ain' 
bin  ter  see  me  lately?" 

"  I  did  ride  past  last  week,"  I  an 
swered  ;  "  but  Betsey  Ann  told  me  you 
had  gone  up  the  bayou  to  visit  your 
son.  This  is  Miss  Kate,  Mammy  ;  you 
surely  have  n't  forgotten  her  ? " 

"  I  reckon  I  ain',"  said  the  old 
woman,  pressing  the  hand  Kate  gave 
her  ;  "  is  you  married  yet,  honey  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  Mammy  ;  I  can't  find 
anybody  who  '11  have  me." 

"  Umph  ! "  said  Mammy.  "  I  se  heerd 
tell  of  dat  befo'.  Well,  don'  you  be 
in  a  hurry ;  youse  young  yit,  an'  you 
hez  lots  of  time.  Ter  tell  you  de 
trufe,  chile  [to  me],  I  always  lowed 
ez  Miss  Kitty  an'  Mass  Fred  ud  mek 
a  match." 

I  glanced  at  Kate,  but  she  seemed 
in  no  way  disconcerted  : 
[47] 


"  Do  you  think  I  'm  good  enough 
for  your  boy  ?  " 

Mammy  looked  critically  at  the 
lovely  young  face :  "  De  Rasleys  an' 
de  Faulkners  kawnt  be  beat  fur  blood, 
an',  seein'  ez  you  is  Rasley  an'  Faulkner 
too,  I  lows  ez  you  will  do  fus'  rate." 

"  And  the  pity  of  it,"  laughed  Kate, 
"is  that  while  I  have  your  approval 
the  gentleman  has  other  views." 

"  Mass  Fred,"  said  Mammy  solemn 
ly,  "  ain'  de  kine  what  tells  his  business. 
Some  folkses  talk  all  over  dere  mouths, 
but  Mass  Fred  ain'  dat  sort.  He  lays 
low,  but  when  de  proper  time  comes 
he  kin  arkinize  wid  de  bes'." 

"  Mammy,"  said  I,  "  you  will  sleep 
in  my  dressing-room  as  usual,  so  take 
off  your  bonnet  and  make  yourself  at 
home.  And  Priscilla  has  some  hot 
coffee  for  you  in  the  pantry." 

It  was  the  half  hour  after  tea,  and 

Kate  and  I,  in  defiance  of  prudence, 

were  strolling  up  and  down  the  back 

gallery,  wrapped  in  the  light   shawls 

[48] 


4HTHE    CHAPERON*! 

Mammy  had  insisted  upon  our  wearing. 
Kate  had  drawn  the  corner  of  hers  over 
her  head,  and  from  beneath  it  her 
face,  with  its  exquisite  pallor  and  seri 
ous  dark  eyes,  looked  like  a  cameo. 

The  moon  was  shining  through  the 
oaks  and  the  sky  glistened  with  stars. 
From  the  garden  came  the  delicious 
fragrance  that  had  greeted  us  in  the 
morning. 

Kate  had  been  telling  me  of  her  life, 
the  endless  round  of  dances  and  din 
ners  that  I  knew  so  well  from  past  ex 
perience,  and  as  I  listened  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  understood  as  I  had  never 
understood  before  how  impossible  it 
was  for  any  one  reared  in  the  country 
to  become  thoroughly  in  touch  with 
town  life.  Involuntarily  I  stretched 
out  my  arms  and  drew  a  long,  deep 
breath. 

Kate  looked  at  me  wistfully. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "  often, 
when  I  have  been  dressing  for  some 
fashionable  affair,  I  have  thought  of 
[  49  ] 


€t  BAYOU 

you  and  envied  you  with  all  my  heart. 
People  said  it  was  eccentric  of  you  to 
turn  your  back  on  us  as  you  did,  and 
I  suppose  it  was  inexplicable  to  many, 
but  I  understood  how,  when  your  heart 
was  heavy  after  Cousin  Jean's  death, 
you  craved  the  peace  of  the  woods  and 
fields.  How  you  longed  to  be  far 
from  the  madding  crowd,  that  is  too 
self-absorbed  to  sympathize ;  to  wear 
out  your  grief  amidst  the  old  scenes 
and  the  old  associations,  that,  after 
all,  have  the  strongest  hold  on  our 
affections." 

"  It  is  true,"  I  said,  "  there  is  healing 
in  the  solitude  ;  strength  in  the  quiet 
days ;  balm  in  the  country  blooms  1 
Of  course  it  is  an  absurd  idea,  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  sun  shines  differ 
ently  here  from  what  it  does  in  town. 
Do  you  know  that  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life  I  feel  myself  really  an  indi 
vidual  ?  For,  there  is  no  doubt  about 
it,  Kate,  town  life  is  very  deadening  to 
one's  personality." 

[50] 


HTHE    CHAPERON^ 

"  Undoubtedly,"  she  agreed.  "  Now, 
I  don't  think  I'm  weaker  than  most 
people,  but  so  often  I  find  myself 
drifting  with  the  tide,  not  raising  my 
voice  in  protest  against  something  I 
thoroughly  disapprove  of,  because 
every  one  is  in  such  a  hurry  that  I 
easily  persuade  myself  there  is  really 
no  use  of  my  speaking. 

"  Here  one  has  time  to  be  true  to 
one's  self  and  to  one's  convictions.  It 
is  a  free  life,  a  strong  life,  a  good  life, 
and  I  envy  those  who  can  live  it." 

She  turned  towards  me  and  I  saw 
that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"  I  wish  Fred  could  hear  you,"  I 
cried  impulsively ;  "he  said  only  yes 
terday  that  your  idea  of  the  country 
was  a  perpetual  house-party." 

"He  said  that  ? "  she  murmured. 
"  Does  he  think  so  badly  of  me  ?  I 
thought  he  knew  me  better." 

"  Chillun,"  said  Mammy  from  the 
door,  "  deres  a  gemman  in  de  study  ter 
see  you-alls." 

[51] 


"  Is  he  young  ?  "  asked  I. 

"  Young  enough,"  severely.  "  He 's 
one  of  deni  Donald  boys,  I  reckon ; 
he 's  got  de  Donald  eyes." 

"  Oh,  it 's  Charley  !  "  I  cried  ;  "  come 
on,  Kate,  he  's  been  away  for  a 
month." 

Mammy  put  out  a  detaining  hand. 

"  Is  you  gwine  in  like  dat  ?  wid  a 
smile  on  your  face  a  foot  wide  ?  Lor', 
chile,  whars  de  raisin'  I  gin  you  ?  In 
your  ma's  day  a  young  lady  'd  never 
hev  thought  of  prancin'  roun'  like  dat. 
Hit's  jes'  scandellus;  I 'clar  ter  gra 
cious,  hit  is ! " 

"  But,  Mammy,"  I  protested,  "Char 
ley  Donald 's  one  of  my  best  friends." 

"  Is  he  your  beau  ?  "  she  asked  with 
a  directness  that  took  my  breath  away ; 
"  kase,  ef  he  ain',  dat  am'  no  way  ter 
welkum  him." 

"  Hush,"  I  said,  in  an  agonized  whis 
per  ;  "he '11  hear  you." 

"  Well,  I  ain'  got  no  objection.  I 
ain'  sayin'  nothin'  ter  be  ashamed  of! 
[52] 


C^THE    CHAPERON^ 

Miss  Mary,  de  way  ter  meet  a  young 
gemman  what  ain'  nothin'  but  a  fren' 
of  de  fambly  is  like  dis."  Mammy 
moved  primly  towards  an  imaginary 
caller  and  held  out  her  hand  : 

"  Good  evenin',  Mr.  Donald ;  Ise 
pleased  ter  see  you.  Hev  a  seat,  sir, 
hev  a  seat.  How  's  de  crop  on  your 
place  ?  Ise  of  de  'pinion  dat  de  rains 
gwine  ter  flustrate  de  'tuitions  of  de 
planters.  Sumpin'  like  dat,  Miss  Mary, 
sumpin'  easy  an'  frenly  but  none  of  dat 
fly  up  de  creek  talk  you  wuz  thinkin' 
'bout." 

"All  right,"  I  said  with  suspicious 
meekness,  and  Kate  and  I  turned  in 
the  direction  of  the  study,  where  we 
found  Charley  Donald  impatiently 
awaiting  us. 

He  advanced  to  meet  us,  but  I  fell 
back  a  step,  dropped  him  a  deep  curtsey, 
and  repeated  slowly  and  impressively 
Mammy's  stately  greeting. 

His  bewilderment,  until  we  ex 
plained,  was  really  laughable,  but  when 
[53] 


TRISTE€L 

told  about  Mammy's  zeal  in  our  behalf 
he  seemed  greatly  touched.  "  What 
a  good  old  soul  she  is  !  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "  Mammy  is  a 
very  dear  old  woman,  and  the  only 
fault  I  can  find  with  her  is  that  she 
does  n't  believe  in  the  Bible." 

The  door  flew  open  and  Mammy 
rushed  in  precipitately.  "  Miss  Mary," 
she  gasped,  "  what 's  dat  youse  sayin'  ? 
Don'  'bleeve  in  de  Bible  ?  Me,  what 's 
been  a  church-member  nigh  onter 
thirty  years.  Me,  what  wuz  baptized 
by  ole  Brer  George  Washinton  Hicks 
de  year  your  ma  wen'  ter  de  White 
Sulphur  Springs  !  Me,  what  ain'  never 
danced  a  step  or  sot  foot  in  a  dancin'- 
room  sense.  Chile,  huccum  you  run 
on  like  dat  ? " 

"  O  Mammy  !  Mammy  !  "  I  laughed, 
"  I  knew  you  were  at  the  key-hole, 
but  I  wanted  to  prove  it.  How  true 
it  is  that  listeners  never  hear  any  good 
of  themselves." 

"  In  cose  I  wuz  dere,"  said  Mammy  ; 
[54] 


CHAPERON*! 

"  an'  who 's  got  mo'  right  ?  Ain'  you 
in  my  keer  ? " 

"  Kate,"  said  I,  as  Mammy  departed, 
"  when  you  go  back  you  can  tell  the 
chaperons  of  your  acquaintance  of  their 
new  privilege  —  the  right  to  listen  at 
key-holes.  But  hev  a  seat,  Mr.  Donald ; 
hev  a  seat ! " 

It  could  not  have  been  more  than  an 
hour  later  that  I  heard  Mammy  call 
out  to  an  imaginary  caller  : 

"  Well,  good-night,  chile,  hit  sho  is 
gittin'  late  ;  hit 's  time  you  wuz  at  home 
in  bade." 

I  raised  my  voice  to  drown  hers,  for 
Charley  was  very  entertaining  and  I 
saw  no  good  reason  for  so  early  a 
dismissal. 

Several  minutes  passed,  then  Mammy 
began  locking  doors  and  pulling  down 
windows  with  such  unnecessary  clamor 
that  Charley  looked  at  me  inquiringly  : 

"  Mammy  shutting  up  the  house,"  I 
said ;  "  she  always  does  it  very  early." 

He  therefore  proceeded  with  his 
[55] 


4HBAYOU     TRISTEft 

story,  and  for  a  short  time  quiet 
reigned,  then  we  heard  distinctly 
eleven  o'clock  strike  from  some  re 
mote  part  of  the  house.  I  glanced  at 
the  mantel,  forgetting  the  clock  was  at 
the  jeweler  s,  and  as  Charley's  breeding 
forbade  his  looking  at  his  watch,  with 
an  apology  for  staying  so  late,  he  took 
his  departure. 

Then  I  rushed  into  the  hall  to  find 
Mammy  seated  on  the  stairs  armed 
with  the  dining-room  tongs.  She 
looked  at  me  triumphantly. 

"  Did  you  make  that  horrid  noise  ? " 
I  demanded. 

"I  sholy  did,  chile,  an'  lemme  tell  you 
dis,  ef  dat  young  gemman  had  onsisted 
on  stayin'  arfter  dat  clock  struck,  I  'd 
made  up  my  mine  jes'  ter  go  in  an'  arsk 
him  whar  he  wuz  riz  up  not  ter  know 
hit 's  manners  ter  go  home  airly  when 
de  gemman  of  de  house  is  gone  ? " 

"  O  Mammy,  Mammy ! "  cried  Kate  ; 
"  you  are  too  correct  for  these  degen 
erate  days." 

[56] 


CHAPERON*! 

"  Too  kerrect  ?  Well,  ter  think  I  'd 
live  ter  see  de  day  when  Miss  Sally's 
chile  'ud  say  sech  a  thing  ?  Lor',  .Lor', 
times  sholy  hev  changed." 

"  No,  they  have  n't,  Mammy  ;  I  was 
in  fun,"  explained  Kate. 

"Dere's  fun  an'  fun,"  she  replied, 
mollified  but  still  stately;  "howsom- 
ever,  dat  's  neider  hyar  nor  dere,  what  I 
hez  on  my  mine  now  is  ter  git  you 
chillun  ter  bade.  Gitter  long,  bofe  of 
you  ;  gitter  long." 

Fred  returned  after  two  days' 
absence,  but  looking  so  grave  and 
thoughtful  that  I  felt  certain  he  had 
heard  bad  news. 

Shortly  after  his  arrival  Kate  con 
siderately  took  herself  to  the  garden, 
leaving  us  together  on  the  gallery. 
Mammy  was  sweeping  off  the  leaves 
and  humming  softly  to  herself: 

"  Oh,  de  human  hyart's  a  curous  thing, 
Cole  ter  de  love  dat  ud  closes'  cling  !  " 

"  Fred,"  said  I,  "  what 's  the  matter  ? 
You  look  as  if  you  had  had  a  shock." 
[57] 


4HBAYOU    TRISTE*! 

"  I  have,"  he  replied  ;  "  did  you  know 
Kate  had  won  that  LaGrange  case  of 
hers  ? " 

"  No,  has  she  ? "  I  exclaimed  ;  "  how 
glad  I  am !  " 

"  Glad ! "  he  repeated ;  "  but  of  course 
you  are,  and  so  ought  I  to  be,  if  I 
were  not  a  selfish  egotist ;  but  don't 
you  see  that  this  money  (for  there  is  a 
large  amount  involved)  puts  her  for 
ever  out  of  my  reach  ? " 

"  I  don't  see  how." 

"  Don't  see  ?  Why,  Mary,  it  seems 
to  me  you  would  know  that  I  would  n't 
ask  a  rich  woman  to  marry  me.  What 
have  I  to  offer  her  but  a  mortgaged 
plantation  and  a  tumbled-down  old 
house  ? " 

"  I  feel  rather  sorry  for  her,"  said  I. 
"  Do  you  mean  that  you  would  not  ask 
her  even  if  you  knew  she  loved  you  ? " 

He  set  his  lips.    "  In  the  first  place  I 
have  no  reason  to  think  that ;  but  even 
if  I  did  [doggedly]  my  pride  would  not 
permit  me  to  do  so." 
[58] 


4HTHE    CHAPERONC 
Mammy  sent  a  pile  of  leaves  flying. 

"  De  human  hyart  is  ez  cole  ez  ice, 
An  Pride  am  de  Debbil's  mose  faverrite  vice," 

she  sang. 

"  I  thought  you  were  broader- 
minded,  Fred,"  I  said  ;  "  I  'm  disap 
pointed  in  you,"  and,  rising,  I  started 
down  the  steps. 

"  Here  are  Kate's  letters,"  he  said. 

I  went  slowly  towards  the  garden, 
where  I  found  Kate  lying  on  the  grass 
with  her  hands  clasped  behind  her 
head,  staring  at  the  cloudless  sky. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  world,  Mary,"  she 
said. 

"  It  is  not,"  I  cried ;  "  it 's  a  horrid, 
stupid  old  world,  and  I  hate  it." 

"  Why,  what  has  happened  ?  "  she 
asked ;  "  anything  about  your  brother  ?  " 

"Yes."  ' 

"  Is  he,"  hesitatingly,  "  in  trouble  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  replied  with  a  sensation  of 
grim  amusement. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry."  She  sat  up 
and  began  opening  her  letters.  "  Could 
[59] 


TRISTE«H 

any  one  do  anything  to  help  him  ?     I 
mean,"  flushing,  "  is  it  money  trouble  ?" 

"Well,"  I  said  truthfully  enough, 
"  money  has  something  to  do  with  it ; 
money,  I  Ve  observed,  usually  is  mixed 
up  in  our  worries.  But  I  'm  afraid 
Fred  would  n't  let  you  do  anything." 

"  Why  not  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  because  men 
are  queer,  and  very  tiresome,  too,"  I 
finished  unpleasantly. 

"O  Mary!"  cried  Kate,  "Aunt 
Jennie  wants  me  to  come  home.  She 
says  she  is  not  well  and  positively  can't 
do  without  me ;  that  I  must  come 
back  at  once.  I  was  afraid  it  would  be 
like  that  when  I  left." 

"  Go  right  home  ? "  I  repeated, 
"Your  aunt  is  quite  too  foolish,  Kate." 

"No,  she  is  very  good  to  me,  but 
you  know  her  way." 

"  Yes,"  I  answered.     I    knew   her 
way ;  in  fact,  I  had  been  acquainted 
with  it  for  some  time,  and  it  was  n't  a 
pleasant  little  way,  either. 
[60] 


CHAPERONC; 

"  Well,"  said  Kate,  rising,  "  it 
doesn't  do  any  good  to  worry  over 
it,  but  it  does  seem  rather  absurd  to 
leave  town  Monday  and  return  on 
Thursday.  I  shall  feel  like  the  king 
of  France  and  his  ten  thousand  men." 

Mammy's  dismay  when  she  heard 
of  Kate's  contemplated  departure  was 
overwhelming.  "  Huccome  you  do 
sech  a  thing  ?  "  she  asked  ;  "  ain'  you 
pleased  hyar  ? " 

"  More  than  pleased,  Mammy,  it  is 
not  my  fault ;  if  I  had  my  way  —  " 
she  broke  off  and  wandering  to  the 
window  looked  thoughtfully  out  into 
the  yard. 

Mammy  pricked  up  her  ears  : 

"We  sho  is  gwine  ter  miss  you," 
she  said. 

Kate  did  not  answer,  but  I  saw  her 
teeth  close  over  her  under  lip  : 

"  You  is  sech  good  cumpny  fur  Miss 
Mary,  an'  I  clar  ter  gracious  I  don' 
see  how  Mass  Fred's  gwine  ter  gitter 
long  widout  you  !  " 

[61] 


€t  BAYOU    TRISTE€[ 

"  Mass  Fred  ? "  repeated  Kate  bit 
terly  ;  "  much  he  cares  !  " 

"  Chile,"  said  Mammy,  crossing  the 
room,  "  you  is  de  apple  of  his  eye. 
He  farly  wusships  you  ;  he  hez  your 
picter  in  a  locket  nex  his  hyart,  an' 
Ise  seen  him  tek  hit  out  an'  kiss  hit 
time  an'  time  agin.  [  "  Oh,  shades  of 
Ananias,"  I  thought.]  One  night 
larst  summer  he  wuz  mity  seeck ;  he 
hed  high  fever  an'  wuz  mity  bad  off, 
an  in  de  d'lirium  he  didn'  do  nothin' 
but  call  fur  you.  Hit  wuz,  '  Kate  ! 
Kate!  Kate!'  all  night  an'  all  day. 
You  kin  arsk  Miss  Mary  if  hit 
warnt  ? " 

I  was  mercifully  spared  the  alter 
native  of  corroborating  Mammy's  ex 
traordinary  tale  or  proving  myself  an 
unloving  sister  by  a  call  from  Fred, 
and,  thankful  for  the  interruption,  I 
hastened  to  him.  I  was  gone  some 
time,  but  a  few  minutes  afterwards 
I  heard  such  agonizing  groans  from 
the  study  that  dropping  the  roses  I 
[62] 


4HTHE    CHAPERON*! 

was  arranging  I  rushed  wildly  in  that 
direction. 

Fred  was  just  ahead  and  we  entered 
the  room  together. 

The  scene  before  us  was  enough  to 
startle  any  one's  nerves. 

Mammy  was  stretched  on  the  hearth 
rug,  writhing  in  pain,  while  Kate  knelt 
by  her,  beseeching  her  to  tell  her  what 
was  the  matter.  With  an  exclama 
tion  of  dismay  Fred  dragged  down  a 
pile  of  sofa  cushions  and  crammed 
them  beneath  Mammy's  head,  while  I 
turned  and  fled  for  camphor. 

When  I  returned  Mammy  was 
quieter,  but  evidently  in  great  agony 
still ;  every  now  and  then  she  would 
open  her  eyes  and  look  at  us  so  lov 
ingly  that  my  heart  fairly  ached. 
Tears  rained  down  Kate's  cheeks,  and 
Fred  was  very  white. 

"  See  here,"  he  cried,  "  this  can't  go 
on ;  it  may  be  very  dangerous.  I 
shall  send  Joe  for  the  doctor." 

Mammy  stirred  feebly : 
[63]  ' 


41  B  A  Y  O  U      T  11 1  S  T  E  H 

66  Mass  Fred,"  she  whispered,  "  don' 
leave  me ;  I  likes  ter  know  youse  at 
han'.  Is  dat  you,  Miss  Kate  ? " 

"  Yes,  Mammy." 

"  Chile,  give  me  your  hand." 

Kate,  not  dreaming  what  was  to 
follow,  held  out  her  little,  trembling 
fingers. 

"  Now  yours,  Mass  Fred." 

Fred  complied  wonderingly,  then 
Mammy  with  a  great  effort  laid  my 
cousin's  hand  in  my  brother's. 

"  Chillun,"  she  said  tenderly,  "  you 
bofe  love  each  other,  but  kase  one's 
reech  an'  de  other's  pore  youse  driftin' 
apart.  Don'  do  hit,  chillun ;  don'  do 
hit.  Ise  ole,  an'  I  knows  de  worl',  an' 
lov's  de  onliest  thing  wuth  hevin'. 
Money  an'  gran'  doin's  an'  de  high 
places  in  de  Ian'  may  satisfy  some,  but 
not  you-all ;  you  ain'  dat  kine ! 
Mass  Fred,"  coaxingly,  "  you  knows 
you  loves  her ;  why  don'  you  tell  her 
so?" 

"  Heaven  help  me  !  I  love  her  better 
[64] 


CHAPERON  €£ 

than  my  life !  Kate,"  to  the  startled 
girl,  "  I  never  meant  you  to  know, 
but  if  I  had  had  anything  to  offer  you 
I  would  have  asked  you  to  marry  me 
long  ago." 

"  And  do  you  ask  me  now  ? "  she 
said. 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,  if  you  will  have  me, 
though  Heaven  knows  I  recognize 
how  unworthy  I  am." 

"  I  love  you,"  she  said. 

Mammy  drew  a  long  breath  :  "  Miss 
Mary,"  she  murmured,  "  hole  dat  cam 
phor  ter  my  nose.  Lor',  chile,  but  hit 
sho'  is  healin'.  I  begins  ter  feel  easier 
already." 

"  Are  you  better,  Mammy  ? "  asked 
Kate. 

"  Yes,  honey,  but  too  many  folkses 
roun'  me  huts  my  bref.  Ef  you  an' 
Mass  Fred  'ud  move  ter  de  winder, 
Miss  Mary  '11  keer  fur  me ;  won't  you, 
Miss  Mary  ? " 

"  Of  course,"  said  I,  and  as  Kate  and 
Fred  moved  reluctantly  away  Mammy 
*  [65] 


shaded  her  face  with  her  hand  and 
gave  me  a  most  unmistakable  wink 
behind  it.  I  was  not  surprised,  for  I 
had  already  begun  to  suspect  her. 

"  Chile,"  she  asked,  when  I  signalled 
that  I  understood,  "  how  soon  do  you 
think  I  kin  git  up?  Hit's  powerful 
oncuffertubble  lyin'  hyar." 

"  Mammy,"  whispered  I,  "  after  the 
fright  you  gave  me  I  feel  like  leaving 
you  there  indefinitely,  but  since  you 
tricked  me  in  a  good  cause  I  '11  have 
pity.  Fred,  I  wish  you'd  call  Joe 
to  help  you  to  move  Mammy  to  her 


room." 


"Let  me  send  for  the  doctor!" 
urged  he. 

"No,"  cried  Mammy  with  surpris 
ing  vigor.  "  I  ain'  gwine  ter  hev  no 
doctors  foolin'  roun'  me.  I  '11  be  all 
right  in  no  time.  Ise  used  ter  dese 
little  attacks,  an'  dey  soon  wears  off." 

A  prophesy  which  proved  correct, 
for  when  Kate  came  in  in  her  travel 
ling  things  to  say  good-by,  she 
[66] 


HTHE    CHAPERON*! 

exclaimed,  "  Why,  Mammy,  no  one 
would  dream  you  had  been  ill." 

"  Miss  Kate,"  said  Mammy  sol 
emnly,  "Ise  got  a  soun'  institootion 
an'  I  co-operate  easily,  but  who  kin 
tell,"  darkly,  "  some  fine  day  I  may  go 
out  jes'  like  a  candle  in  de  win'." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that,"  said  the  girl 
earnestly.  "I  want  you  to  live  for 
years  and  years.  And  be  sure  of  this, 
Mammy,  I  shall  never  forget  that  but 
for  you  I  would  never  have  known 
happiness." 

"  Honey,"  said  Mammy,  suddenly 
conscience-stricken,  "  don'  you  be  fret- 
tin'  over  me.  I  ain'  so  very  seeck ; 
leastways  "  —  noting  Kate's  wondering 
expression  —  "  tain'  nothin'  sose  ter 
say  dangerous.  An'  now  good-by, 
chile;  tek  good  keer  of  yourself,  an' 
may  de  good  Lord  bless  an'  keep  you 
always ! " 


[67] 


A  SOCIAL  ADVISER 


"  "1    ^OR  kingdom  come,  Miss  Mary  ! 
rl     run  hyar  quick." 

Priscilla's  agonized  tones 
brought  me  rapidly  to  the  library, 
where  I  found  her  mounted  on  the 
top  step  of  the  ladder,  armed  with  a 
long-handled  brush  with  which  she 
had  been  polishing  the  countenances  of 
my  ancestors.  Her  eyes  were  twice 
their  natural  size. 

"  What  's  the  matter  now  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Matter  enuff,  chile  ;  dis  ole  ladder's 
powerful  onsartin  an'  jes  now  when  I 
wuz  dustin'  ole  marster  off,  hit  peared 
ter  me  he  kiner  smile  at  me,  same  like 
he  useter,  'n  I  wuz  that  skeered  I  cum 
mity  nigh  tumblin'  off." 

I   looked   at  the    portrait    of    my 
stately  old  grandfather  and  frowned  ; 
[68] 


HA    SOCIAL    ADVISER^ 

Priscilla's  love  of  sensation  was  apt  to 
carry  her  far,  but  hitherto  she  had  re 
spected  my  relatives. 

"  Don't  be  absurd  ! "  I  said  crush- 
ingly,  and  instead  of  steadying  the 
ladder,  as  was  evidently  expected  of 
me,  I  crossed  the  room  and  retired  to 
the  shelter  of  the  window-seat. 

Priscilla,  however,  was  not  easily 
subdued  ;  indeed,  I  had  often  said  that 
to  my  mind  she  possessed  all  the 
qualifications  of  a  great  social  leader, 
—  sublime  self-confidence  and  a  mag 
nificent  capacity  for  ignoring  snubs. 
So,  having  successfully  inveigled  me  to 
the  library,  after  a  moment's  silence 
she  proceeded  smoothly : 

"  Mass  Fred's  the  livin'  bornd  image 
of  ole  marster.  I  sez  ter  Hinery  yis- 
tiddy, '  Hinery,'  sez  I,  'if  Mass  Fred wuz 
ez  ole  ez  he  granpa,  I  clar  ter  gracious 
I  cudn'  tell  de  diffrunce  betwixt 


em.' " 


Her   conversational   efforts  fell  un 
heeded,  for  I  did  not  reply,  but  con- 

[69] 


tinued  to  gaze  out  of  the  windows  at 
the  vivid  sweep  of  live-oak  branches. 
Priscilla  climbed  down  and  moved  the 
ladder  before  a  portrait  of  my  mother. 
"  Lor' ! "  she  said,  passing  the  brush 
carefully  over  the  lovely  young  face, 
"  Lor' !  Miss  Mary,  I  members  yo' 
ma's  weddin'  day  same  ez  twuz  yis- 
tiddy.  She  sho  was  a  beauty,  an' 
young  too,  jis  nineteen  when  she 
married  Mass  Arthur."  She  paused 
and  looked  over  at  me,  "  Miss  Mary, 
huccum  you  ain  never  married  ? " 

"  Because  I  never  wanted  to." 

"  I  lows  you  hed  lots  of  chances 
[graciously].  Modeste  Powler  says 
Betty  Green  tole  her  you  done  los  de 
count  of  de  gemman  what  axed  you  ! " 

Of  course  it  was  despicably  weak,  but 
I  felt  my  heart  warm  towards  Betty. 

"  She  say  how  you  wuz  a  ginuine 
belle  in  de  city." 

"  Did  she,  indeed  ?  "  I  said,  feigning 
an  indifference  1  was  far  from  feeling ; 
"  that  was  certainly  kind  of  her." 
[70] 


€t  A    SOCIAL    ADVISER*! 

"  But,  if  you  ain'  never  hed  no 
leanin'  ter  marry,  you  done  right  ter 
stay  single ;  an'  I  reckon  when  you 
counts  hit  all  up  you  hez  choozed  de 
better  part." 

I  laughed.  "  That  is  rather  hard  on 
Henry,  Priscilla." 

"  Hinery's  a  good  husban'  ez  hus- 
ban's  go,  Miss  Mary ;  but  when  a 
'ooman  marries  she  ain'  free  no  longer, 
she's  bleeged  ter  insult  anoder  pusson 
'bout  every  leetle  thing  she  duz,  an' 
arfter  awhile  dat  gits  kiner  wearin'." 

I  did  not  tell  Priscilla  so,  but  in  a 
crude  way  she  had  expressed  my  own 
objections. 

"  I  wuz  young  an'  foolish  when  I 
married  Hinery  ;  he  wuz  de  bes  fiddler 
an'  dancer  on  de  plantation,  an'  de 
oder  gals  sho  wuz  arfter  him,  so  I 
up  an  sez  yes,  'fore  I  hed  time  ter 
think." 

"  Well,  he   has  been  very  good  to 
you,"    I    said.     "  Mr.    Fred   thinks   a 
great  deal  of  Henry." 
[71] 


U      TltISTE«H 

Priscilla  pursed  up  her  lips,  her 
glance  intimated  that  she  could  tell 
much  an  she  would,  but  aloud  she  said, 
"  Ise  got  money  laid  up,  Miss  Mary. 
I  reckon  hit 's  wuth  while  fur  Hinery 
ter  consort  heself  right  wid  me.  My 
ma  sez  ter  me  de  night  I  wuz  married, 
'  Sylla,'  sez  she,  '  don'  you  never  let 
Hinery  git  hole  of  what  you  makes  ; 
he  '11  rispict  you  ef  you  hez  money  of 
yo'  own.'  An'  Miss  Mary,  chile,  I  ain' 
never  furgot  dat  advice.  She  wuz  a 
good  'ooman,  my  ma." 

"  Poor  Henry  !  "  thought  I. 

"  'Tain  no  use  talkin,  Miss  Mary ;  ef 
you  wants  peace  youse  bleeged  ter 
take  a  stan'  frum  de  fus.  Now  deres 
Hinery,  you  mightn'  think  hit,  but  he 
wuz  ez  skittish  ez  a  colt  when  I  mar 
ried  him." 

"  I  certainly  would  n't  have  thought 
so ! "  I  replied  devoutly,  remember 
ing  the  meek-faced  little  man  who 
called  Priscilla  wife. 

"  Hinery  sho  wuz  mannish,  Miss 
[72] 


HA    SOCIAL   ADVISER€£ 

Mary,  but  I  tuk  hit  all  out'n  him  de 
fus  year."    She  chuckled  appreciatively. 

As  I  betrayed  no  wild  interest  in 
her  matrimonial  experiences  she  pro 
ceeded  to  change  the  subject  with 
startling  abruptness  : 

"  Miss  Mary,"  with  the  familiarity 
of  an  old  servant,  "is  Mass  Phil 
Rainey  yo'  beau  ? " 

"  Of  course  not,"  I  answered  warmly ; 
"  he 's  a  friend  of  Mr.  Fred's." 

"  A  fren'  of  Mass  Fred's,"  she  re 
peated  thoughtfully;  "a  mity  good 
fren',  I  reckon,  seein'  ez  he  's  hyar  once 
a  week  an'  sometimes  mo'."  I  did  not 
answer. 

"  I  members  Mass  Phil  when  he 
warnt  no  bigger 'n  my  Benjie.  He's 
downrite  hansom,  Mass  Phil  is,  but  he 
ain  much  on  talkin,  is  he  ?  Ter  tell 
you  de  trufe,  Miss  Mary,  I  lows  ez 
you  talks  too  much  ter  Mass  Phil. 
You  gits  him  kiner  flapdazzled,  an'  don' 
'low  him  a  chance  ter  git  a  word  in 
aidgewise." 

[73] 


I  stared  at  Priscilla  in  speechless  in 
dignation. 

"  De  oder  nite  when  I  wuz  fixin  de 
hall  lamp  I  tuk  note  dat  you  did  all  de 
talkin .  Mass  Phil  he  laff  an'  laff,  but 
he  ain'  never  ascertained  no  subject 
fur  heself." 

"Priscilla!"  I  cried  with  flaming 
cheeks,  "you  had  better  go  on  with 
your  dusting." 

"  In  a  minnit,  Miss  Mary,  in  a  min- 
nit;  but  Ise  hed  hit  in  my  mine  dis  long 
time  ter  tell  you  dis,  an'  Ise  bleeged 
ter  eend  hit.  I  members  hearin'  Miss 
Sally  say  ['  Sally '  was  Kate's  mother 
and  a  thorough  flirt],  —  she  an'  yo*  ma 
wuz  in  de  gardeen,  —  sez  she,  '  Jean,' 
sez  she,  '  when  I  likes  a  man  I  never 
talks,  kase  I  wants  ter  hear  what  he 's 
got  ter  say  ;  an'  when  I  don't  like  him 
I  ain't  sayin'  nothin'  neider,  kase  de 
sooner  he  sez  what's  in  he  mine  de 
sooner  Ise  done  wid  him.'  An'  Miss 
Mary  [grinning,]  I  'lows  Miss  Sally 
knowed." 

[74] 


<t  A    SOCIAL    ADVISER*! 

Apparently  I  was  not  listening,  but 
in  reality  Priscilla's  suggestion  was  by 
no  means  lost  upon  me.  Phil  Rainey 
was  a  thorn  -in  my  path,  and  from  all 
appearances  intended  to  remain  there 
indefinitely.  I  had  known  him  as  a 
child,  and  upon  my  return  to  the  plan 
tation,  after  my  mother's  death,  he  had 
taken  up  the  old  friendship  with  much 
enthusiasm. 

A  slim,  dark  fellow,  with  a  ready 
laugh  and  no  conversation,  he  called 
often  and  again  at  Southmeade,  boring 
me  to  extinction  and  furnishing  Fred 
with  abundant  material  for  teasing. 

It  was  true,  as  Priscilla  had  imperti 
nently  stated,  that  I  led  the  conversa 
tion,  but  if  I  had  not  we  should  have 
gazed  at  each  other  in  silence. 

But  Cousin  Sally's  maxim  in  Pris 
cilla's  words  set  me  to  thinking,  and 
to  such  purpose  that  when  Fred  tapped 
at  my  door  that  evening,  facetiously 
remarking  that  "  my  little  playmate 
was  in  the  library,"  I  went  to  meet 
[75] 


TRISTE€£ 

him  resolved  to  try  the  magic  effects 
of  stupidity. 

The  result  was  amazing.  After  one 
or  two  fruitless  efforts  to  lead  me  out 
and  finding  me  utterly  unresponsive, 
Phil  pulled  his  chair  closer  to  mine 
and  proceeded  to  entertain  me. 

My  dullness  seemed  to  stimulate 
him,  for  the  quieter  I  grew  the  gayer 
he  became ;  whether  he  attributed  my 
apathy  to  sudden  self- consciousness  I 
do  not  know,  but  before  long  he  had 
launched  into  a  conversation  of  so 
personal  a  type  that  Priscilla  could  no 
longer  accuse  him  of  not  "ascertaining  " 
a  subject.  In  a  comparatively  short 
time  he  had  ascertained  a  great  deal 
and  given  me  ample  food  for  reflection. 

Priscilla  met  me  with  my  lamp  just 
after  his  departure,  and  the  expression 
in  her  eyes  was  difficult  to  ignore.  I 
did  so,  however,  and  went  yawning  off 
to  bed. 

A  night  or  two  after,  Phil,  finding 
me  so  curiously  pensive  and  embold- 
[76] 


HA    SOCIAL    ADVISER^ 

ened  by  my  determined  silence,  gave 
me  the  opportunity  of  saying  once  and 
forever  whether  he  found  favor  in  my 
sight  or  not. 

It  was  not  easy  to  convince  him 
that  he  did  not,  but  after  the  use  of  a 
good  quantity  of  plain  English  it 
dawned  on  him  that  I  was  serious,  and 
a  few  minutes  later  he  dashed  out  for 
his  horse  and  rode  angrily  away. 

"Miss  Mary,"  said  Priscilla  the 
following  week,  "  huccum  Mass  Phil 
Rainey  don'  cum  hyar  no  mo'  ? " 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  I  replied 
idly. 

Priscilla  looked  at  me  with  grave 
approbation. 

"  Dat  's  rite,  honey,"  she  said  ; "  don' 
never  tell  yo'  bizness  ter  noboddy. 
But,  arfter  all,  I  reckons  you'  bleeves 
now  Miss  Sally  knowed  what  she  wuz 
talkin'  'bout." 


[77] 


VI 

UNCLE   EPHR'UM 

THE  plantation  carriage  with 
Uncle  Ephr'um  on  the  box 
was  at  the  steps  : 

"  It 's  long  after  eleven,"  called 
Fred.  "  You  '11  be  awfully  late." 

"  Strange,"  I  mused,  "  the  zeal  peo 
ple  who  are  not  going  to  church  dis 
play  in  getting  other  people  off." 

"Uncle  Ephr'um,"  I  observed,  "it 
seems  to  me  the  mules  look  very 
rough."  For  be  it  known  to  all  men, 
and  to  all  women  too,  alas,  that  car 
riage  horses  have  ceased  to  be  at  South- 
meade. 

"  Dey  suttenly  duz,"  he  assented, 
"  but  hit  kawnt  be  helped ;  when  de 
hair  gits  long  an'  fuzzy  de  dus'  will 
show," 

[78] 


LE    EPHR'UM  4H 

"  But,"  I  continued  warmly,  "  the 
dust  would  n't  show  if  it  was  n't  there." 

"Dat's  true,  chile,  dat's  puffectly 
kerrect,  but  you  see  hit  is  dere." 

I  climbed  in  meekly,  the  hopeless 
ness  of  suggesting  that  a  curry-comb 
might  mend  matters  having  been 
demonstrated  too  often  for  me  to  at 
tempt  it  now. 

"  Poor  old  carriage  !  "  I  reflected ; 
"  poor  old,  dilapidated  coachman  !  "  as 
my  eyes  wandered  from  the  dingy  cur 
tains  and  battered  woodwork  to  the 
shabby  old  man  in  front. 

I  took  a  mental  inventory  of  his 
costume,  a  process  which  I  found 
highly  stimulating  to  the  memory. 
His  hat,  I  recalled,  was  a  gift  from 
me  in  recognition  of  his  services  as  a 
moss-picker ;  his  coat  Fred  gave  him 
the  day  he  killed  the  rattlesnake;  his 
trousers  - 

"  Uncle  Ephr'um,"  I  asked  suddenly, 
"  did  you  know  two  hens  had  disap 
peared  from  the  henhouse  last  night?" 
[79] 


"  You  don  sesso  ?  " 

"  But  I  do,"  I  replied  irritably  ; 
"  and,  what  is  more,  I  know  who  took 
them." 

He  glanced  around,  and  to  look  at 
him  one  would  have  said  that  his 
greatest  desire  in  life  was  to  aid  me  in 
tracking  down  the  thief. 

"Yes,"  I  continued  triumphantly, 
"  Priscilla  and  I  found  a  plank  knocked 
off  and  a  hole  in  the  wall  just  big 
enough  for  Joe  to  slip  through."  (Joe 
was  his  nephew.) 

Uncle  Ephr'um's  glance,  which  had 
been  eager,  became  full  of  reproach  ;  I 
felt  like  a  criminal,  like  one  who  had 
wounded  another  in  his  tenderest  and 
most  sacred  feelings. 

"  Miss  Mary,"  he  said,  "  dat  don' 
soun'  like  you.  I  lows  dat  no-coun' 
Priscilla  —  " 

"Priscilla  had  nothing  to  do  with 
it,"  I  retorted.  "  By  the  way,  did  you 
tell  the  carpenter  to  come  up  and  look 
at  that  gate  ?  " 

[80] 


"  Yes  'm,  an'  he  cum  up  an'  looked 
at  hit." 

For  a  moment  indignation  rendered 
me  speechless,  the  gate  in  question 
being  still  in  the  last  stages  of  disre 
pair  ;  then  I  said  in  tones  of  such  con 
centrated  sarcasm  that  even  Uncle 
Ephr'um  wilted,  "  I  thought  I  was 
dealing  with  people  who  had  a  little 
common  sense,  but  it  seems  I  was  not. 
This  time  I  will  be  more  explicit ;  be 
good  enough  to  tell  Jim  to  mend  the 
gate,  straighten  the  hinges,  fix  the 
latch." 

"  Now,  now,"  said  the  old  man  sooth 
ingly,  "  'tain  no  use  gittin'  mad  'bout 
hit ;  hit  don'  do  a  single  mite  of  good." 
And  while  inwardly  protesting  I  knew 
he  spoke  the  truth. 

So  I  fell  into  a  moody  silence  and 
was  jogged  along  to  church  in  any 
thing  but  a  Christian  frame  of  mind. 
All  at  once  my  reflections  were  cut 
short  by  the  mules  swerving  suddenly 
across  the  road. 

6  [81] 


4HBAYOU 

"  What  on  earth  is  the  matter  ? "  I 
asked. 

"  'Tain'  nothin'  but  one  of  dem  bike- 
lists,"  said  Uncle  Ephr'um. 

"  Stop  !  "  I  cried,  for  at  the  edge  of 
the  drive  was  a  broken  bicycle  with  a 
man  lying  face  downwards  beside  it. 
"  The  poor  fellow  is  hurt." 

"  Lor' ! "  continued  the  dusky  Levite, 
"  what  bizness  is  hit  of  ourn  ?" 

"  Get  down  this  instant,"  I  said,  and 
I  leaned  over  and  caught  the  reins 
with  that  in  my  tone  and  manner,  a 
suspicion  of  the  Rasley  stateliness,  that 
sent  Uncle  Ephr'um  scrambling  from 
his  perch. 

Stooping  he  lifted  the  young  man 
and  turned  his  face  to  the  sun. 

"  He  done  dade,"  he  said. 

"  Nonsense,"  I  replied,  "  give  him  a 
mouthful  of  whiskey." 

"  Whiskey,"  in  an  injured  tone, 
"  whar  I  gwine  git  enny  ? " 

"  Out  of  your  pocket,"  for  I  knew 
his  custom. 

[82] 


4HUNCLE 

So  with  great  reluctance  he  pro 
duced  a  bottle  with  a  corn-cob  stopper 
and  poured  a  little  of  the  cheering 
liquid  down  the  stranger's  throat. 

"  Tain'  no  good,  Miss  Mary,"  he  said. 

"  It  is,"  I  answered ;  "  I  saw  him 
move.  Now,  look  here,  we  must  get 
him  back  to  Southmeade.  Take  him 
up,  I  '11  help  you  with  him ;  there," 
lifting  his  head  gently,  "get  into  the 
carriage.  Poor  fellow ! "  as  a  groan 
escaped  the  unconscious  lips,  "  we  're 
doing  the  best  we  can  for  you." 

"Whose  gwine  ter  drive,"  asked 
Uncle  Ephr'um. 

"  I  am,"  and  I  climbed  up  and  took 
the  reins. 

"  De  Lord  hev  mussy  on  us ! "  was 
the  devout  response. 

The  road  was  lonely  and  we  met 
no  one. 

We  found  Fred  on  the  front  gallery 
much  disturbed  over  our  speedy  return. 

"What's  up?"  he  cried,  running 
down  the  steps  ;  "  and  what  on  earth 
[83] 


TRISTEC; 

are  you  doing  up  there  ?  By  George  ! " 
after  a  glance  at  Uncle  Ephr'um's 
burden. 

I  sprang  down  and  in  a  few  rapid 
words  explained  the  situation,  then, 
leaving  them  to  get  the  sufferer  to 
Fred's  room,  I  flew  in  search  of 
Priscilla. 

"  Priscilla,"  I  cried  from  the  back 
steps  (our  kitchen,  like  all  plantation 
ones,  being  some  distance  from  the 
house)  ;  "  Priscilla,  have  you  seen 
Joe  ? " 

Priscilla  appeared,  —  a  much  be- 
floured  figure. 

"  I  sont  him  fur  some  wood  'bout 
two  hours  ago,  an'  I  ain'  nuver  seed 
him  sence." 

"  Call  him  !  I  want  him  imme 
diately." 

So  nothing  loath  she  sent  her  voice 
across  the  yard  :  "  Joe !  O  Joe !  You 
Joe!" 

No  answer. 

"  Horrid  little  boy,"  I  cried  despair- 
[84] 


E    EPHR'UM  €£ 

ingly,  "  he  shan't  have  that  hat  of  Mr. 
Fred's.  I  know  he  hears." 

"Lor',  Miss  Mary,"  cried  Priscilla, 
"  yander's  Joe  now  ; "  and  from  beneath 
the  steps  where  I  am  standing  crawls 
the  truant. 

"  Why  did  n't  you  come  before  ?  " 
I  asked  angrily. 

"I  nuvver  knowed  you  wanted 
me." 

"  You  did  n't  hear  us  shrieking  over 
this  yard?" 

"No  'm."  Again  the  hopelessness 
of  argument  is  borne  in  upon  me. 

"  Go  round  to  the  steps,"  I  said, 
"and  take  the  carriage  for  Doctor 
Starr  ;  ask  him  to  come  back  with  you  ; 
say  that  a  young  gentleman  has  been 
badly  hurt." 

Joe  lingered : 

"  Well,  what  are  you  waiting  for  ?  " 

"  'Tain'  Mr.  Fred's  what  hut  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not ;  now  hurry,"  and  as 
the  little  black  figure  vanished  I  ran 
to  the  kitchen  to  consult  with  Pris- 
[85] 


cilia  over  the  relative  merits  of  ice  and 
hot  water  for  bruises. 

It  was  six  weeks  later,  and  my 
patient  (as  Fred  insisted  on  calling 
him,  though  Mammy  Margaret  was  his 
real  nurse)  had  for  a  week  now  been 
able  to  leave  his  room  and  sit  on  the 
gallery  in  the  shade  of  the  Marechal 
Niel  rose.  He  was  still  pale  and 
showed  the  effects  of  his  illness,  but  I 
found  myself  thinking  how  handsome 
he  must  be  when  strong  and  well. 

Clever,  courteous,  and  absurdly 
grateful  for  the  little  we  were  able  to 
do  for  him,  he  was  a  pleasant  addition 
to  our  small  household,  to  whom  any 
thing  in  the  way  of  an  excitement  was 
welcome. 

In  a  short  while  we  had  learned  much 
about  him  ;  he  was  a  New  Yorker  (one 
of  the  Allen-Delanceys),  and,  having 
come  South  for  pleasure,  was  wheeling 
through  the  country  when  the  accident 
occurred  that  brought  him  into  our 
quiet  lives. 

[86] 


It  did  not  take  long  to  discover  that 
his  half-sister  had  married  one  of  our 
cousins,  and  that  we  had  numerous 
other  mutual  friends. 

It  seemed  that  we  had  just  missed 
each  other  at  the  Greenbriar,  and  that 
he  had  intended  sailing  on  the  very 
steamer  Kate  and  I  returned  in  when 
a  cablegram  altered  his  plans. 

He  told  me  this  last  bit  of  news  as 
we  sat  on  the  gallery  one  day,  and  I 
exclaimed  : 

"  What  a  tiny  little  world  it  is,  after 
all!" 

"  Not  so  very  small,"  he  said.  "  It 
is  wide  enough  at  times,  but  it  only 
proves,  what  I  have  always  contended, 
that  nothing  can  keep  people  apart 
whom  Fate  wills  to  bring  together." 

"  Do  you  really  think  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,  and  I  cannot  be  too 
grateful  that  Fate  took  interest  enough 
in  my  affairs  to  send  my  wheel  into  a 
rut ;  if  she  had  not  I  would  have  gone 
home  with  a  lot  of  superficial  informa- 
[87] 


*H  B  A  Y  o  u    T  R  i  s  T  E  H 

tion  about  Louisiana,  but  minus  an 
experience  that  I  would  not  forego 
for  all  the  aching  ankles  in  the  world." 

"  You  have  been  unusually  favored," 
I  said  ;  "  tourists  generally  see  us  from 
the  outside,  but  you  have  known  us  as 
we  really  are.  You  have  lifted  the 
curtain  and  seen  something  of  our 
home  life,  with  its  droll  makeshifts  and 
petty  trials,  its  simplicity  and  gen 
uineness  and  frank  poverty.  You  have 
understood  as  perhaps  few  North 
erners  do  the  exact  relation  between 
the  old  slaves  and  their  masters' 
children  and  grandchildren." 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  To  Mammy's  nurs 
ing  I  owe  my  health.  To  Uncle 
Ephr'um  many  a  hearty  laugh.  To 
your  brother  an  acquaintance  with 
brave  young  manhood  I  shall  never 
forget,  and  to  you  - 

The  rose  I  held  snapped  suddenly, 
and  as  he  stooped  to  pick  it  up  he 
said  again,  with  a  rush  of  tenderness 
in  his  voice,  "  and  to  you  — 
[88] 


H  UNCLE    EPHR'UM  €[ 

"  Miss  Mary,"  said  Uncle  Ephr'um, 
from  the  steps,  "  Mass  Fred  wants  you 
in  de  gardeen." 

I  went,  though  I  confess  very  re 
luctantly,  for  it  is  not  agreeable  to 
have  the  cup  snatched  away  just  as  it 
is  held  to  your  lips,  and  I  heard  Uncle 
Ephr'um  say  as  I  moved  away,  "  Yes, 
boss,  de  Rasleys  an'  de  Faulkners, 
deys  bin  folks  of  consularity  ever  sence 
ole  Kilumbus  diskivered  Ameriky." 

After  finding  the  flower- seed  Fred 
wanted  I  returned  to  the  house,  but 
instead  of  rejoining  Mr.  Delancey  on 
the  gallery  I  wandered  into  the  library 
and  struck  a  few  chords  on  the  piano 
to  indicate  my  whereabouts. 

But  though  I  waited  fully  a  half 
hour  no  one  came.  Then  with  rising 
anger  I  opened  the  window  and  looked 
onto  the  porch. 

Seeing  it  deserted  I  went  out  im 
mediately. 

Uncle  Ephr'um,  alone  in  his  glory, 
was  training  a  climbing  rose  and 
[89] 


€1^  BAYOU 

mounted  on  an  upturned  barrel  which 
threatened  every  moment  to  collapse 
with  him. 

"  Why  not  get  the  ladder  ?  "  I  said, 
knowing  that  it  had  been  long  broken, 
awaiting  his  attention. 

"  Dis  is  good  enuff  fur  me,"  he  said  ; 
"times  ain'  what  dey  wuz,  an'  ef  ole 
marster's  grandchillun  kin  be  so  frenly 
wid  a  Yankee  I  reckon  I  ain'  too 
proud  ter  stan'  on  a  barrel." 

"  Absurd ! "  I  cried.  "  Mr.  Delancey 
is  a  gentleman  ;  any  one  would  be  glad 
to  entertain  him.  Besides,"  noting  his 
expression,  "  we  only  did  our  duty." 

"  Umph,"  said  Uncle  Ephr'um. 

"Mary,"  said  Fred,  joining  me  a 
short  while  later,  "  did  you  know 
Delancey  was  going  away  to-morrow  ? " 

"  What  ?  "  I  cried. 

"  Yes,  I  have  just  parted  with  him  ; 
he  says  he  has  received  letters  (the 
usual  excuse)  that  require  his  imme 
diate  return.  Do  you  know  if  anything 
could  have  happened  to  annoy  him  ? " 
[90] 


EPHR'UM€[ 

"  Certainly  not."  Then  as  the  re 
flection  of  our  conversation  came  back 
to  me,  with  the  unfinished  sentence 
that  might  have  meant  so  much,  the 
bitter  doubt  arose  that  perhaps  he  had 
repented  of  his  impulsive  speech,  and 
thought  it  wise  to  go  away. 

"  I  know  of  no  reason,"  I  repeated, 
conscious  of  my  burning  cheeks. 
"  But  above  all  things  do  not  persuade 
him  to  stay.  He  knows  his  own 
affairs  best,  and  protestations  might 
embarrass  him.  You  know  we  South 
erners  are  very  warm-hearted,  and  he 
might  mistake  civility  for  gush." 

"  Mary  ! "  exclaimed  Fred,  "that 
does  n't  sound  a  bit  like  you  !  And 
why  should  you  fear  Delancey's  mis 
understanding  us  ?  He  's  too  good  a 
fellow  for  that." 

"Granted,"  said  I;  "but,  all  the 
same,  1  would  not  toll  the  bells  or 
wear  sackcloth  and  ashes  over  his  de 
parture.  He  will  respect  you  all  the 
more  if  you  do  not." 
[91] 


HBAYOU 

In  spite  of  my  sage  advice  Fred 
showed  great  regret  when  Hugh  De- 
lancey  stepped  languidly  into  the  car 
riage  that  was  to  carry  him  to  the 
station,  but  I  made  up  for  it  by  such 
a  show  of  cheerful  resignation  that 
Fred  told  me  afterwards  I  had  been 
actually  rude. 

"  Good-by  again,  Miss  Rasley," 
called  our  visitor.  "  I  shall  never  for 
get  Southmeade  or  your  kindness  to 
the  stranger  within  your  gates." 

"Good-by,"  I  replied.  "Here 
Flip,  race  with  me  to  the  garden,"  and 
as  the  carriage  rolled  away  Hugh 
Delancey  saw  me  skimming  across  the 
yard  as  though  there  were  no  such 
word  as  regret  in  my  vocabulary. 

It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that 
my  indifference  was  only  a  poor  pre 
tence,  for  the  days  that  followed 
showed  me  only  too  plainly  that  with 
our  guest  had  gone  a  goodly  share  of 
my  interest  in  life.  I  had  never 
known  what  it  was  to  "  miss  "  any  one 
[92] 


<H  U  N  c  L  E 

before  ;  hitherto  my  simple  interests 
and  trivial  occupations  had  completely 
filled  my  days  ;  but  now- 

I  grew  restless  and  fretful ;  I  waged 
daily  battles  with  Priscilla ;  I  was 
coldly  sarcastic  to  Uncle  Ephr'um  and 
absolutely  intolerant  of  Joe. 

Once,  even,  I  answered  Fred  shortly ; 
a  proceeding  which  so  dismayed  him 
that  I  think  he  had  serious  doubts  of  my 
sanity.  Mammy  came  to  see  me  often 
in  those  days,  and  though  she  never 
said  anything  I  knew  she  thought  me 
looking  wretchedly. 

She  always  inquired  for  "  Mr. 
Hugh,"  and  when  I  told  her  of  the 
books  and  music  he  had  sent  me,  and 
his  long  letters  to  Fred,  she  seemed  to 
be  greatly  puzzled. 

"  I  'lowed  es  you  hed  sont  him 
away,"  she  said. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Why,   chile,  I  knowed  he  wuz  in 
love  wid  you,  and  I  thought  you  'd  tole 
him  dere  warn'  no  hope  fur  him." 
[93] 


TRISTE  €1 

"  Did  you  ? "  I  said  with  a  mirthless 
laugh ;  "  you  're  a  very  clever  old 
woman,  Mammy,  but  even  you  can 
make  mistakes.  Did  he  send  you  the 
tobacco  he  promised  ? " 

"  Yessum,  a  big  box,  an'  he  sont 
some  ter  Ephr'um  too ;  somehow 
Ephr'um  didn'  seem  ter  be  pleased 
wid  hit.  Pears  ter  me  he  's  been  kiner 
low-sperritted  lately.  Hez  you  ob- 
sarved  hit  ? " 

"  No,"  I  answered,  truthfully  enough, 
for  I  was  too  much  absorbed  in  my 
own  grievances  to  be  watchful  of  other 
people's.  "  No,  I  never  noticed  any 
thing." 

"  He  tole  me  he  don'  sleep  at 
night,  an'  he  hez  mizry  in  he  back 
jes'  orful." 

"  Poor  old  man,"  I  said  compassion 
ately,  and  after  Mammy  had  departed 
I  went  into  the  vegetable  garden,  where 
Uncle  Ephr'um  was  working  on  his 
tomato  plants,  and  proceeded  to  ques 
tion  him  about  his  health. 
[94] 


4HUNCLE    E  P  H  R  '  u  M  €[ 

To  my  surprise  he  did  not  take  my 
inquiries  in  good  part : 

"  Huccome  you  ax  me  how  I  is  ?  " 
he  said.  "  Ain'  I  doin'  my  work  right  ? 
Is  I  gittin'  onkeerful  ?  If  I  is,  jes' 
you  tell  me  so  immejiate-like,  an'  don' 
you  beat  'roun'  axin'  me  how  I  is." 

"  Dear  me  !  all  this  temper  because 
of  a  civil  question  1  Uncle  Ephr'um, 
I  'm  afraid  something  's  seriously  the 
matter  with  you  ;  what  have  you  got 
on  your  conscience  ? " 

He  started  perceptibly.  "  What 's 
dat  ? "  he  asked  ;  "  what 's  dat  you  say  ? 
Ef  Ise  done  wrong,  I  done  hit  fur  de 
bes'  so  I  ain'  got  no  cause  fur  ter 
be  oncomfertubble." 

"  Have  n't  you  ?  "  said  I,  more  for 
the  sake  of  argument  than  from  hon 
est  conviction ;  "  well,  I  don't  know 
about  that.  If  some  one  else  is  mixed 
up  with  it,  I  expect  they  would  have 
something  to  say  about  it." 

"Hit  were  done  fur  de  bes,"  he 
repeated. 

[95] 


"  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  you  know 
your  own  affairs,"  I  said  and  I  glanced 
listlessly  at  the  white-starred  black 
berry  vines  wreathing  the  fence. 
"  Uncle  Ephr'um,  why  don't  you  cut 
those  down  ? " 

"  I  ain'  got  de  hyart  ter  do  hit,  chile, 
deys  so  determinated  an'  so  fergivin'. 
Ef  you  chops  em  down  terday  deys 
back  by  termorrer.  Dey  warnt  doing 
noboddy  enny  harm,  so  I  'eluded  ter 
jes'  leave  em  dere." 

I  smiled.  "  I  hope  you  are  as 
thoughtful  of  people,"  I  said.  "  If  it 
pains  you  so  to  see  a  plant  suffer,  I 
suppose  you  could  not  bear  to  hurt 
any  one's  feelings." 

"  Not  pupposely,  Miss  Mary ;  not 
pupposely,"  he  replied.  I  looked  at 
him  in  surprise.  Evidently  I  had 
touched  upon  a  sore  subject. 

"Talkin'    'bout    sick    folkses,"    he 

said,    "I  'd  like  ter  know  what   ails 

you,    chile  ?      You    is    ez    white    ez 

dat  flower  yander,  an'  I  never  heers 

[96] 


you  singin'  roun'  de  house  likes  you 
useter." 

The  blood  swept  to  my  brow.  Had 
I  taken  my  trouble  so  to  heart  that 
even  the  servants  observed  it?  Surely 
I  must  be  daft  to  so  forget  my 
pride ! 

"  It 's  this  warm  weather,"  I  said, 
"  nothing  more  ! "  and  I  sauntered 
away  with  my  head  held  high. 

I  think  it  was  that  night  that  Pris- 
cilla  came  in  to  borrow  a  stamp. 

"  Fur  Uncle  Ephr'um,"  she  an 
nounced ;  "Joe's  writin'  a  letter  fur 
him." 

"  Look  in  that  little  box ! "  I  said, 
and  as  she  moved  away  I  wondered 
languidly  who  Joe's  correspondent  was, 
and  little  dreamed  that  his  letter  had 
any  connection  with  my  affairs. 

For  the  next  few  days  Uncle 
Ephr'um  went  about  with  such  an  air 
of  mystery  that  Fred  asked  him  if  he 
wasn't  in  love,  a  question  which  was 
very  badly  received. 
[97] 


€L  BAYOU    TRISTE^ 

"  Me  ? "  he  exclaimed  indignantly ; 
"huccum  you  poke  fun  at  a  pore  ole 
nigger,  Mass  Fred  ?  " 

"  Love 's  no  fun,"  said  Fred ;  "  it  can 
play  the  very  mischief  with  you  some 
times." 

They  were  just  outside  my  window, 
Fred  feeding  a  pet  rooster  and  Uncle 
Ephr'um  raking  leaves. 

"  I  reckon  hit  duz,  Mass  Fred.  Ise 
seen  some  folkses  what  hit  peers  ter 
farly  onsettle.  Now  dar  wuz  Mr.  De- 
lancey,  he  sholy  did  hev  hit  bad." 

"  Oh,  shut  up,"  cried  Fred  ;  "  can't 
you  tell  the  difference  between  love 
and  a  sprained  ankle  ? " 

"Yes,  sir,"  was  the  dignified  response; 
"an'  'fore  dis  week's  out  you'll  see 
dat  I  knows  what  Ise  talkin'  'bout." 

"  Uncle  Ephr'um,"  said  Fred,  get 
ting  up  and  strolling  away,  "  if  you  'd 
like  an  order  for  the  doctor  you  can 
have  it.  I  fear  there  's  something  ter 
ribly  out  of  gear  in  your  brain." 

Uncle  Ephr'um  chuckled.  "You 
[98] 


HuccMmyoii  poke  fun  at 
a  pore  old  nigger  ?  " 


kin  lafF,"  he  said,  "  but  jes'  you  wait 
an'  see." 

It  was  two  days  later  and  noonday. 
Across  the  pastures  came  the  whistle 
of  the  coming  train,  the  clang  of  the 
plantation  bell. 

From  my  bench  in  the  garden  I  saw 
Joe  ride  down  the  avenue  with  the 
mail-bag,  then  Uncle  Ephr'um  jog 
past  in  the  cart.  Fred  called  out  to 
him  not  to  forget  the  newspaper,  and 
Flip  trotted  as  far  as  the  gate,  then 
feeling  that  he  had  done  his  duty  re 
turned  to  finish  his  nap  out  on  the 
rug. 

The  sky  was  as  blue  as  a  mountain- 
lake  ;  the  air  heavy  with  fragrance. 

With  a  sigh  I  folded  my  arms,  leaned 
my  cheek  on  them,  and  gave  myself  up 
to  sombre  thoughts. 

How  long  I  remained  thus  I  do  not 
know,  but  the  click  of  the  garden-gate 
and  a  man's  step  on  the  path  made  me 
lift  my  head. 

"  Miss  Rasley,"  cried  Hugh  Delan- 
[99] 


cey,  "  before  you  even  greet  me  let 
me  show  you  what  brings  me  here. 
This  will  be  an  explanation  of  much 
that  has  puzzled  me  ;  an  explanation 
that  I  feel  sure  will  satisfy  even  your 
pride,"  and  before  I  could  protest  he 
put  a  letter  into  my  hand. 

"  From  Uncle  Ephr'um,"  he  said, 
"  received  two  days  ago.  But  read  it, 
I  beg  of  you." 

So,  while  he  stood  bareheaded  with 
the  sunshine  playing  round  him,  I 
read,  now  with  a  smile  and  now  with 
a  sigh,  the  letter  Joe  had  written,  and 
which  my  stamp  had  carried  safely  to 
its  destination : 


HONORED  MR.  HUGH  DELANCEY 


"  respected  Sir,  —  i  takes  my  pen  in  han  ter 
write  you  dese  few  lines  ter  say  ez  i  is  enjyein 
good  helth  an  hopes  youse  bein  blest  wid  de 
same  — respected  Sir,  the  honor  of  addressin1 
you  is  sich  ez  i  never  expected  ter  enjye  but 
felin  ez  i  hez  done  you  rong  an  sein  ez  our 
young  Lady  is  fadin  away  afore  our  eyes  I  sez 
ter  myself  sez  i  de  trufe  mus  be  told  dough  i 
wines  up  in  de  leetle  eend  of  de  horn  —  hon- 
[100] 


ored  an  respected  Sir  —  you  members  dat  day 
we  wuz  talk  in  tergedder  on  de  front  galry  an  i 
tole  you  bout  mass  charlie  donels  bein  miss 
Marys  beau  —  ef  you  rekillex  i  sed  dey  wuz 
gwine  ter  be  married  rite  arfter  easter  well  i 
ain  menin  ter  tell  you  no  lie  but  i  handled  de 
trufe  mity  keerless  like — kase  mass  charlies 
bin  kotin  miss  Mary  ever  sense  dey  wuz  chillun 
an  ten  or  twelve  mo  gemman  too  i  disremem- 
bers  dere  names  —  but  she  ain  never  showed 
no  favor  to  none  of  em  ceppen  hit  wuz  you. 

i  tole  you  what  i  did  kase  i  thot  hit  wuz  a 
down  rite  shame  fur  ole  marsters  grandchile 
ter  marry  a  yankee  what  fit  agin  wealls  an 
ennyhow  i  lowed  ez  dere  wuz  heaps  of  pritty 
ladies  in  de  norf  what  ud  make  you  a  good  an 
fitten  wife  an  noo  yorks  too  far  away  fur  miss 
Mary  ter  go. 

seein  howsomever  ez  shese  pinin  fur  you  an 
bein  ez  ise  so  lowsperited  over  de  way  she  don 
sing  an  lafF  roun  de  place  like  she  useter  i  done 
fixed  hit  up  in  my  mine  ter  tell  you  de  trufe 
an  let  you  percedify  fur  yoself. 

"honored  an  respected  Sir  your  obejient 
sarvant,  ef  rum  gabul. 

"  miss  Mary  don  know  nothin  bout  dis  jes 
me  an  joe  an  ise  promist  him  a  lickin  ef  he 
tells  ennyboddy." 

[101] 


4HBAYOU 

The  letter  drifted  to  the  ground  ;  I 
held  out  my  hands  with  a  smile : 

"  You  are  sure  you  wanted  to  come  ? 
You  had  not  forgotten  ? " 

"  You  know,"  answered  Hugh. 

"  But  the  pretty  ladies  at  the  North," 
I  suggested. 

"  I  prefer  a  pretty  lady  at  the  South," 
he  said. 


[102] 


VII 

AT  MADAME  JEAN'S 

I    CLIMBED  the  levee  slowly,  for 
the  bank  was  steep.     Flip  trotted 
briskly    ahead    while    Joe    idled 
languidly  in  the  rear. 

The  sun  was  setting  and  the  western 
sky  blazed  with  color.  Crimson  and 
gray  and  gold,  the  shifting  cloud- 
banks,  dashed  here  and  there  with 
fleecy  white,  were  a  feast  to  the  eye,  a 
delight  to  the  soul. 

"The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of 
God  and  the  firmament  showeth  His 
handiwork,"  I  quoted  dreamily. 

Then    my    gaze    wandered    to    the 
bayou,  to  remain  momentarily  trans 
fixed  with  consternation  and  surprise. 
It  had  been  many  weeks  since  I  had 
last  climbed  the  levee,  and  back  among 
[103] 


the  Southmeade  oaks  it  had  been  easy 
to  forget  the  treacherous  enemy  at  our 
gates. 

It  is  true  I  had  heard  Fred  fretting 
over  his  levees,  but  I  had  listened  to 
the  same  story  every  spring  of  my 
life  ;  true,  too,  that  our  visitors  fre 
quently  referred  to  the  unprecedented 
rise  in  the  bayou,  but  I  had  thought 
them  over-anxious,  and  it  was  not 
until  now,  when  I  stood  on  the  frail 
earth-wall  and  saw  the  water  whirling 
and  tearing  at  my  feet,  that  I  realized 
the  danger. 

My  courage  failed  me,  for  it  seemed 
such  a  hopeless  task  to  seek  to  defend 
ourselves  against  this  resistless  force. 

I  had  started  out  in  good  spirits,  in 
answer  to  Priscilla's  request  to  buy  her 
some  brahma  eggs  from  Madame  Jean, 
an  old  creole  woman  who  lived  above 
us,  but  my  heart  sank  and  a  dull  de 
spair  settled  over  me  as  I  walked  along, 
reflecting  that  in  an  instant  our  old 
home,  the  broad  fields,  the  toil  and 
[104] 


€£AT    MADAME   JEAN'S*! 

hopes  of  years,  might  be  swept  out  of 
existence. 

Madame  Jean's  one-story  house, 
with  the  unplastered  walls  and  leaning 
mud  chimney,  was  set  some  distance 
back  from  the  road  ;  on  one  side  was 
a  stagnant  pond,  the  haunt  of  innu 
merable  frogs ;  on  the  other  the  re 
mains  of  a  house  begun  years  ago  and 
never  finished.  I  remembered  driv 
ing  past  there  as  a  wee  child,  and 
hearing  my  father  say,  "  That  house 
was  begun  when  I  was  a  boy." 

A  tiny  garden  enclosed  Madame 
Jean's  cottage,  filled  to  overflowing 
with  periwinkles,  larkspurs,  coxcombs, 
phlox,  and  long-stemmed  lilies.  A  red 
rose  had  flung  itself  to  the  top  of  a 
china  tree,  and  a  yellow  jessamine 
covered  a  rude  arbor  near  the  gate. 
The  beds  were  marked  off  with  in 
verted  ale  bottles,  and  a  freshly  bricked 
path  led  up  to  a  spotless  step.  It 
seemed  to  be,  in  its  purity  and  fresh 
ness,  the  very  abode  of  peace. 
[105] 


4HBAYOU    TR 

I  pushed  the  wistaria  vine  aside  and 
knocked  on  the  wall,  for  the  door  was 
wide  open,  a  white  cotton  curtain 
waving  in  the  breeze.  While  I  waited 
I  turned  aside  to  admire  the  scarlet 
geraniums  growing  in  an  old  pirogue, 
swung  at  one  end  of  the  gallery. 
Having  grown  unfit  for  swamp  use 
any  longer,  it  had  been  thrown  aside 
to  be  converted  by  thrifty  Madame 
Jean  into  a  flower-box. 

I  was  bending  over  it  when  a  step 
sounded  behind  me  and  Madame's 
soft  voice  said, "  Bon  soir,  mademoiselle ; 
eet  has  been  one  long  time  sence  you 
have  been  here." 

"  Too  long,  madame,"  I  responded 
cordially ;  "  but  I  am  a  very  busy 
person,  for  all  you  may  hear  to  the 
contrary,  and,  as  you  know,  am  nothing 
of  a  visitor.  You  have  been  well,  I 
hope  ? " 

"Very  well,  thank  you,  made 
moiselle." 

Her  tone  was  cheerful,  yet  in  some 
[106] 


MADAME   JEAN'S^ 

indefinite  way  she  gave  me  the  im 
pression  of  suffering.  I  glanced  at 
her  quiet  face,  framed  in  smooth  bands 
of  silver  hair,  and  decided  that  I  was 
fanciful. 

"  Won't  you  come  in  ? "  and  she  led 
the  way  to  the  parlor.  The  floor  was 
bare  but  spotless,  the  furniture  of  the 
simplest  quality,  but  the  hide-bottomed 
chairs  were  comfort  itself,  and  the 
orange-flower  syrup,  presently  brought 
in  to  me,  a  drink  fit  for  the  gods. 

After  a  few  minutes'  desultory  chat 
I  acquainted  Madame  Jean  with  the 
motive  of  my  errand,  and  she  disap 
peared  to  see  if  she  could  supply  the 
demand.  She  soon  returned  with  a 
huge  gourd  filled  with  rich  yellow  eggs. 

"  One  dozen  and  two,"  she  counted 
slowly.  "  Weel  that  do,  mademoi 
selle?" 

"  It  will  have  to  do,"  I  laughed. 
"  Indeed,  I  'm  only  too  grateful  for 
any ;  I  hope  you  are  not  depriving 
yourself." 

[107] 


H  B  A  Y  o  u    T  n  i  s  T  E  €L 

"  Non,  non,  eet  is  a  pleasure ;  and, 
what  is  more,  I  can  never  do  too  much 
for  your  mother's  child." 

I  had  never  known  what  it  was, 
but  some  long-ago  kindness  of  my 
mother's  had  lingered  in  her  memory 
with  a  faithfulness  not  often  to  be 
met  with  nowadays. 

"  Have  you  heard  from  'Tasie 
lately  ?  "  I  asked,  rising  regretfully,  for 
the  little  room  had  an  out-of -the- world 
charm  of  its  own. 

Madame  did  not  reply,  and,  think 
ing  she  had  not  understood,  I  repeated 
the  question. 

"  You  have  not  heard,  then  ? "  she 
said  in  a  low,  shamed  voice.  "  But  of 
course  they  would  not  tell  you." 

"  Heard  ?  "  I  repeated  stupidly. 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Do  not  ask  me,"  she  broke  out 
passionately.  "It  is  not  for  you  to 
take  her  name  upon  your  lips.  I 
know  not  what  has  become  of  her,  — 
where  she  has  gone.  She  is  nothing 
[108] 


MADAME   JEAN'S€[ 

to  me,  —  nothing  !  "  and  she  threw  out 
her  hands  in  a  bitter  gesture  of  repu 
diation. 

A  vision  of  the  little,  dark-browed 
child  who  had  grown  like  a  flower 
under  Madame's  tender  care  flashed 
before  me,  —  the  innocent  face,  the 
laughing  eyes. 

"  Sometimes  I  think  the  good  God 
has  forgotten  me,"  went  on  Madame. 
"  Father  Pierre,  he  comes  and  talks  to 
me ;  and  your  priest, —  your  Monsieur 
Pyrl,  came  to  see  me  the  other  morn 
ing.  He  was  kind,  he  seemed  to  un 
derstand,  to  know  what  I  felt ;  but  my 
heart  here  is  like  ice,"  and  she  laid 
her  hand  on  her  breast. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  you,"  I  said, 
feeling  my  utter  inadequacy,  for  I  had 
never  encountered  tragedy  of  this  type 
before. 

"  If  she  had  killed  me  with  her  own 
hands  it  would  have  been  better." 

"Madame  Jean,"  I  said,  speaking 
with  an  impulse  rare  in  one  so  consist- 
[109] 


HBAYOU 

ently  conservative,  "this  is  a  hard 
world ;  cruel  and  unforgiving,  espe 
cially  to  women.  Would  it  not  grieve 
you  to  think  you  had  made  it  harder 
for  some  other  poor  human  being,  and 
that  a  creature  of  your  own  flesh  and 
blood  ?  " 

"  She  has  shamed  me,"  she  mur 
mured.  "  I  never  want  to  see  her 
face  again." 

"  You  think  not,  but  you  miss  her 
all  the  time.  Poor  'Tasie  !  who  could 
have  dreamed  of  this  ?  She  was  such 
a  happy  little  child." 

A  stifled  cry  broke  from  Madame : 
"  She  is  a  weecked  girl,  mademoiselle  ; 
you  should  not  speak  of  her." 

"  If,  some  day,  she  is  sorry  and 
comes  back  to  you,  you  will  not  turn 
her  away,  will  you  ?  " 

She  did  not  reply. 

"  You   would   not,   Madame   Jean, 

you  know  you  would  not ;  "  and  I  bent 

my  eyes  on  her  face,  concentrating  all 

the  force  of  my  earnest   and   sincere 

[110] 


4HAT    MADAME    JEAN'S^ 

feeling  upon  her.  "  You  said  you 
could  not  do  too  much  for  my  mother's 
child ;  do  this  for  me :  Promise  me, 
you  will  take  her  back." 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  what  is  it  to  you  ? 
Why  should  you  care  ? "  she  broke 
out. 

"  She  is  a  woman,"  I  said  gently, 
hardly  realizing  that  the  contrast  be 
tween  my  own  happy  life  and  the 
other's  wretched  existence  was  the  se 
cret  of  my  compassion. 

"  Be  it  so,"  she  said  sullenly.  "  If 
she  comes  back  I  will  take  her  in,  but 
she  will  never  come  ! " 

Late  that  evening  Fred  found  me 
sitting  on  the  front  steps,  dreaming. 
The  moon  was  up  and  the  branches  of 
the  oak  trees  sparkled  with  fireflies. 
A  little  breeze  fragrant  with  roses 
stole  round  the  corner  of  the  house, 
the  air  echoed  to  the  cheerful  call  of 
insects. 

We  seemed  to  be  in  a  world  of  our 
own  ;  a  world  of  peace  and  quiet,  far 


from  pain  and  trouble  and  heartbreak. 
The  old,  old  riddle  of  the  why  and 
wherefore  of  existence,  the  meaning  of 
sin  and  sorrow,  crept  into  my  mind, 
but  I  put  it  from  me  with  decision  : 

"  I  did  not  understand,  but  all  was 
for  the  best !  " 

"  I  wish  you  could  see  yourself," 
said  Fred,  glancing  at  me  affection 
ately  ;  "  your  face  looks  like  a  prayer. 
1 11  bet  you,  ten  to  one,  you  were 
thinking  of  Delancey." 

"  I  was,"  I  answered,  with  a  swift 
rush  of  pity  for  others  less  fortunate. 
"  I  was  thanking  God,  fasting,  for  a 
good  man's  love." 


[112] 


VIII 

THE   KUNJERIN'   OF   SALLY-ANN 

I  thought  it  rather  hard  Priscilla 
should  follow  me  to  the  garden, 
whither  I  had  taken  myself  for  the 
express  purpose  of  enjoying  my  own 
society,  but  scarcely  was  I  established 
before  she  arrived,  smiling  and  urbane, 
and  so  perfectly  sure  of  a  welcome  as 
to  be  peculiarly  exasperating. 

I  had  told  Fred  only  a  day  or  two 
past  that  if  one  was  polite  one  was 
sure  to  be  imposed  upon,  and  Pris 
cilla  was  a  constant  reminder  of  this 
unhappy  fact. 

"  You  looked  so  lonesome,  Miss 
Mary,"  she  said,  seating  herself  on  the 
grass,  "  dat  I  lowed  I  'd  jine  you ; 
'tain'  good  fer  young  folkses  ter  flock 
by  deyselves  ;  'sides  Ise  in  trubble,  an' 
I  wants  you  ter  vise  me." 


TRISTE€[ 

She  settled  her  pan  of  peas  on  her 
knee,  drew  a  long  breath,  and,  without 
waiting  to  hear  whether  I  was  pre 
pared  to  give  my  assistance,  plunged 
into  her  narrative. 

"Deres  one  thing  'bout  you,  Miss 
Mary,"  she  remarked  ;  "  youse  young 
but  you  knows  a  lot.  I  reckon  dat 
cums  frum  livin'  in  de  city  ;  and  now 
you  stays  in  de  country  you  members 
what  you  knowed.  I  lows  dere  ain' 
many  folkses  kin  git  ahead  of  you." 

This  delicate  tribute  (coming  from 
such  a  source)  was  of  course  appre 
ciated. 

"You  do  me  too  much  honor,"  I 
murmured. 

"  No  'm,  you  sarves  every  word  of 
hit.  Me  an'  Hinery  wuz  talkin'  'bout 
you  de  oder  night,  an'  Hinery  he  up 
an'  sez,  Triscilla,'  sez  he,  'eddication 
is  one  thing  an'  brains  anoder,  but 
mixin'  wid  folkses  an'  onderstannin' 
dere  ways  is  bettern  all ;  an'  dats  how 
hit  is  wid  Miss  Mary.' ' 
[114] 


€t  THE  KUNJERIN'  OF  SALLY- ANN  €1 

I  realized  at  once  that  this  speech 
(intended  to  be  complimentary)  would 
not  bear  investigation,  so  1  said 
hastily  : 

"  Well,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  You  kin  hep  me  a  lot,  Miss  Mary  ; 
hits  Sally- Ann  what's  in  trubble. 
Yessum,  Sally  ain'  had  no  luck  sence 
de  day  she  wuz  bornd ;  fus  tunnin' 
a  kittle  of  bilin'  water  over  herself 
when  she  warnt  no  mo'n  a  baby,  den 
bein'  runned  by  a  cow  crossin'  thru' 
Mrs.  Cameron's  parsture,  an'  hyar 
lately  gwine  an'  gittin'  kunjered  by 
dat  no  count  leetle  gal  what  cooks  fur 
Mister  Lagroue." 

"  Angie  !  "    I  exclaimed. 

"  Yessum,  an'  alongst  of  a  squint- 
eyed  nigger  what  ain'  wuth  de  shot 
ter  kill  him  wid." 

"If  he's  all  that,"  I  said,  "why 
should  Sally- Ann  want  him  ? " 

"  Miss  Mary,  dere  ain'  no  countin' 
on  gals  ;  Ise  lived  a  long  time  an'  Ise 
lunned  a  heap,  but  Ise  never  con- 
[115] 


4HBAYOU 

structed  myself  ez  ter  what  a  gal 's 
gwine  ter  do  1  Nathan  Lewis,  de 
nigger  what 's  brung  all  de  'citement, 
wuz  keepin  cumpny  wid  Sally  (dey 
wuz  traduced  at  de  picnic  what  de 
congregation  of  Blessed  Sinners  guv 
at  de  Grove)  ;  an',  seein'  ez  Sally  ain' 
nothin'  on  looks,  an'  warnt  likely  ter 
git  anoder  chance,  me  an'  Hinery 
'cided  ter  make  no  'jections  ter  de 
match. 

"  Everything  was  gwine  on  smoovely 
when  Sally-Ann  ain'  hed  no  better 
sence  den  ter  'vite  Angie  ter  supper 
one  night  when  Nathan  wuz  dere. 
Well,  Miss  Mary,  you  may  n't  'bleeve 
hit,  but  she  ain'  mo'n  set  eyes  on  dat 
nigger  'fore  she  gin  ter  'tract  him ; 
sich  gwines  on  I  never  seed. 

"  Sally-Ann  she  ain'  dun  nuffin  but 
cry  all  night,  an'  Hinery  he  sez  ter 
her,  sez  he, '  You  got  jes'  what  you 
sarved,  ain'  got  no  mo'  gumtion  den 
ter  ax  dat  gal  hyar.  I  reckon  you  11 
know  better  nex'  time.'  Well,  Miss 
[116] 


H  THE  KUNJERIN'  OF  SALLY- ANN  H 

Mary,  Nathan  ain'  bin  nyar  us  sence, 
ceppen  once,  an'  den  twuz  ter  ax 
Hinery  fur  de  loan  of  a  quarter ;  an' 
Sally- Ann  she 's  bin  gwine  roun'  like 
a  seeck  chicken,  never  talkin'  ter  no- 
boddy,  an'  not  sleepin',  an'  actin'  so 
contrary  dat  we  knows  Angie  's  done 
kunjered  her." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  I.  "  I  suspect 
Sally  is  low-spirited  and  you  are  too 
easily  frightened." 

"  No,  ma'am,  she  's  bin  kunjered  ; 
Monday  night  de  fedders  in  her  piller 
wuz  cram  full  of  lumps." 

"  That  often  happens." 

"  An'  larst  night  she  foun'  a  dade 
chicken  hade  in  her  bade." 

"  The  cat  took  it  in  there,  of  course  ; 
people  don't  conjure  each  other 
nowadays." 

"  White  folkses  don',  Miss  Mary, 
but  niggers  duz ;  an'  Ise  dat  on- 
settled  'bout  Sally  dat  Ise  pretty  nigh 
'stracted.  Hinery  sez  ter  me  ez  he 
wuz  levin'  dis  mornin',  *  Priscilla,'  sez 
[117] 


€t  B  A  Y  o  u    T  n  i  s  T  E  <H 

he,  '  why  don'  you  insult  Miss  Mary  ? 
Dere  ain'  nothin'  she  kawnt  do,  an1  ef 
you  splains  de  sark'mstances  of  de  case 
I  low  she'll  Vise  something  ter  set 
things  straight.' ' 

"  Henry  overrates  my  abilities,"  I 
remarked,  not  caring  whether  Priscilla 
understood  or  not ;  "  but  I  'm  willing 
to  do  anything  to  help  you,  because 
Sally  is  an  honest  girl,  and  I  hate  to 
think  of  her  being  ill." 

"She's  kunjered,  Miss  Mary;  dat 
Angie  ain'  got  Injun  blood  fur  nothin' ; 
but  Lor'  knows  I  kawnt  mek  out 
what  a  gal  teks  anoder  gal's  beau  fer, 
when  she  ain'  even  keerin  fer  him 
herself." 

"Priscilla,"  said  I,  "that's  a  prob 
lem  I  've  often  heard  discussed  but  I 
never  expect  to  see  solved." 

"  Yessum,"  fervently  ;  "  hit 's  sum- 
thing  ter  cuss  over." 

1  laughed  aloud.  "  That 's  one  way 
of  looking  at  it,"  I  said. 

"  An'  youse  gwine  ter  hep  me  ? " 
[118] 


4H  THE  KUNJERIN'  OF  SALLY- ANN  <H 

"Oh,  yes,  if  I  can." 

"  Lor',  chile,  I  knows  you  '11  'com- 
plish  sumthing,  kase  when  you  sets 
yo'  mine  ter  anything  you  don'  low 
yo'self  ter  be  beat." 

"  Well,  go  away  now  and  leave  me 
to  think  it  over." 

So  Priscilla  departed,  and  a  mo 
ment  after  Charlie  Donald  sauntered 
across  the  grass  to  me  ;  in  his  arms  he 
carried  something  brown  and  velvety 
and  altogether  lovely. 

"  For  you,"  he  said,  dropping  it  on 
my  knee. 

"  O  Charlie  ! "  I  cried  ;  "  a  setter 
puppy.  How  good  of  you  ! " 

"  Well,  you  know  you  wanted  one." 

"  I  did,  but  where  did  you  get  it  ? " 

"Nathan  Lewis,  a  negro  whom  I 
helped  out  of  trouble  (drunk  Saturday 
night,  as  usual),  brought  it  to  me  yes 
terday." 

"  Nathan  Lewis  ;  and  you  say  he  is 
under  obligations  to  you  ? " 

"  Yes,"  in  great  surprise. 
[119] 


4H  B  A  Y  o  u 

"  Then  he  will  do  anything  for  you  ? " 

"  No  ;  that  does  n't  follow." 

"  I  suppose  not,  but  there  can  be 
no  harm  trying." 

"  Trying  what  ?  My  brain  moves 
slowly." 

"  Listen,"  I  said,  and  I  hastily  nar 
rated  the  story  wherein  Nathan  played 
the  part  of  hero  and  Angie  that  of  the 
villain. 

"  Well,  upon  my  word,"  said  Charlie ; 
"  fancy  any  one  sighing  for  Nathan." 

"You  forget,"  I  replied,  "'Sally- 
Ann  'ain'  nothin'  on  looks  an'  never' 
hed  no  luck  nohow. ' ' 

"  Sally  must  not  expect  too  much, 
you  mean  ? " 

"  No,  she  must '  down  on  her  knees ' 
for  anything  that  comes  her  way." 

"  Poor  Sally- Ann  !  " 
i     "  Poor  indeed  ! "  I  replied. 

"  Well,  look  here,"  said  he,  "  I  '11 
make  a  bargain  with  you.  If  you 
manage  Angie  I  '11  answer  for  Na 
than." 

[  120  ] 


€1  THE  KUNJERIN'  OF  SALLY- ANN  H 

"  You  think  you  can  ?  " 

"  I  have  great  hopes." 

"  Very  well,  I  shall  depend  on  you." 

"  Good  !  Now  suppose  we  talk  of 
something  else.  Did  you  get  those 
books  I  sent  you  ? " 

That  evening  I  gave  Priscilla  a 
small  vial  of  golden  liquid  (and  how 
could  she  recognize  Fred's  favorite 
Chartreuse)  and  said  impressively  : 

"  Give  this  to  Sally,  Priscilla.  Tell 
her  to  take  four  drops  in  a  glass  of 
water  every  night  as  the  clock  strikes 
twelve,  and  see  that  she  says  as  she 
swallows  it : 

"  If  I  drink  this  precious  charm 
Spirits  cannot  do  me  harm." 

Priscilla's  eyes  swelled,  but  she  re 
peated  slowly : 

"  Ef  I  drinks  dis  preshus  charm 
Sperrits  ain'  gwine  ter  do  me  harm." 

Fred  joined  me  shortly  after  Pris 
cilla  had   disappeared.     "  Mary,"    said 
he,  "you're  the  biggest  goose  living. 
[121] 


The  idea  of  teaching  that  darkey  all 
that  nonsense  ! " 

"My  dear  boy,"  I  replied;  "  one  must 
fit  the  cure  to  the  malady.  Sally  really 
thinks  she  is  conjured,  and  if  I  used 
ordinary  methods  would  allow  her 
mind  to  influence  her  and  ultimately 
fade  away  ;  as  it  is,  I  have  hopes  of 
her  recovery." 

"  I  expect  you  know,"  he  said.  "  You 
generally  do." 

"  Thanks  so  much.  I  see  you  are 
going  to  the  quarters  ;  please  tell  Angie 
I  want  to  speak  to  her." 

"If  I  remember." 

"  See  that  you  do ;  this  is  very  im 
portant." 

That  his  memory  proved  faithful 
was  evidenced  by  the  arrival  of  Angie 
the  next  day  ;  Angie,  in  a  gorgeous  and 
impossible  costume  of  white  cheese 
cloth  and  a  big  hat  freighted  with 
poppies. 

When  this  delightful  vision  bright 
ened  my   humble   apartment  I  said : 
[122] 


€1  THE  KUNJERIN'  OF  SALLY- ANN  €£ 

"Angle,  Mrs.  Doane  wrote  me  this 
morning  to  engage  you  as  her  cook. 
She  says  she  has  not  forgotten  your 
batter  cakes  "  (for  Angie  had  cooked 
for  us  during  one  of  Priscilla's  brief 
absences,  and,  faithless  friend  though 
she  might  be,  was  a  jewel  among  serv 
ants).  "  I  saw  Mr.  Lagroue  this  morn 
ing,  and  he  said  he  had  no  objection  to 
your  going  ;  and  I  felt  sure  you  would 
want  to  go,  for  the  city  will  suit  you 
better  than  the  country,  won't  it  ?  " 

"Yessum,  dese  folkses  roun'  hyar 
sho'  is  common." 

If  Angie  could  have  guessed  my  un 
complimentary  thoughts  she  would 
not  have  looked  at  me  so  smilingly; 
but  fortunately  eyes  do  not  speak,  so 
she  was  blissfully  unaware  of  my  senti 
ments.  "  Think  it  over,"  I  said.  "  You 
will  have  to  go  before  Sunday,  or  Mrs. 
Doane  will  give  the  place  to  some  one 
else." 

"  1 11   go,    Miss    Mary,"   she  cried ; 
"  dere  ain'  nothin'  ter  keep  me." 
[123] 


"  I  did  n't  think  so,"  I  replied.  "  I 
knew  you  held  yourself  above  the 
people  on  the  place."  ("  Horrid  little 
snob!"  I  thought.) 

"  Yessum  ;  dere  am'  noboddy  fitten 
ter  sociate  wid  hyar." 

"  Then  I  '11  write  to  Mrs.  Doane  to 
expect  you  ? " 

"  Yessum." 

So  early  Saturday  morning  Angie 
departed  for  "  green  fields  and  pastures 
new,"  and  that  same  afternoon  Charlie 
called  to  acquaint  me  with  the  success 
of  his  own  machinations. 

"  I  sent  for  Nathan,"  he  said,  "  and 
told  him  I  'd  give  him  the  place  of 
hostler  if  he  were  only  married.  In 
fact,  I  'd  hold  the  offer  open  until  he 
could  find  himself  a  wife,  provided  she 
were  the  right  sort.  I  wanted  her  to 
take  charge  of  the  dairy,  and  would  n't 
tolerate  any  airified  city  negress  around, 
but  an  honest,  downright  ugly  one, 
the  uglier  the  better.  '  Priscilla  Wil 
son's  Sally  'ud  do  fus  rate,'  he  said 
[124] 


€1  THE  KUNJERIN'  OF  SALLY- ANN  4H 

ungallantly ;  'but   Ise  had  oder  'ten- 
tions.' 

"  *  Oh,  well,'  said  I,  '  it  does  n't  mat 
ter,  but  I  thought  you  'd  jump  at  a  place 
where  you  11  get  twelve  dollars  a  month, 
besides  board  and  a  cabin.  And  as  to 
Sally- Ann  I  Ve  heard  Miss  Rasley  say 
she  was  one  of  the  best  girls  on  their 
place.' 

"' That's  true,  Mass  Charlie/  he 
said.  *  I  ain'  'sputin'  what  you  say  ;  but 
deres  dat  little  Angie,  I  'lowed  ez  — ' 

"'Angie,'  I  cried  derisively,  'she 
would  n't  look  at  you ;  besides,  she  's 
gone  to  New  Orleans.  Mr.  Lagroue 
told  me  this  morning  he  was  out  of  a 
cook.' 

" '  You  don'  sesso,'  said  Nathan. 
'  Well,  bein'  ez  dats  so,  I  reckon  I  '11 
go  over  an'  see  Sally.' 

"  '  You  'd  better  hurry,'  I  remarked, 
'or  the  first  thing  you  know  some 
other  fellow  will  cut  in  ahead  of  you.' ' 

"  O  Charlie,"  I  cried  ;  "  how  could 
you?" 

[125] 


"Surely  you  know,"  he  replied, 
"that  nothing  stimulates  the  mascu 
line  ardor  like  the  fear  of  a  rival. 
Nathan  was  departing  certain  of  con 
quest.  Sally- Ann  was  therefore  in  a 
way  valueless ;  by  my  untruthful  but 
potent  speech  I  have  sent  her  stock  up 
many  points.  In  love  and  war  —  you 
know  the  adage.  But  to  change  the 
subject.  I  'm  driving  a  new  horse  ; 
won't  you  try  him  with  me  ?  " 

An  hour  or  so  later,  as  we  were 
coming  slowly  home,  we  met  Sally  and 
Nathan  walking  down  the  big  road  to 
the  quarters.  Charlie  checked  his 
horse  and  called  out : 

"  Well,  Nathan,  I  hope  you  were 
successful." 

"  Yessir,"  he  replied,  grinning ;  "  hit's 
all  right." 

"  Miss  Mary,"  said  Sally- Ann,  com 
ing  round  to  my  side  of  the  cart,  "  I 
ain'  gwine  ter  fergit  dat  you  cured  me 
of  bein'  kunjered.  Widout  you  I  'd 
hev  bin  pintedly  dade." 
[  126] 


€t  THE  KUNJERIN'  OF  SALLY- ANN  €1 

"  Oh,  no,  Sally,"  I  protested  ;  "  you 
weren't  as  ill  as  all  that." 

"  Yessum,  I  wuz,  but  I  took  yo' 
med'cin  regular  an'  said  dat  potry  reel 
keerful,  an'  Ise  all  right ;  but  ef  hit 
hedn'  bin  fur  you  I  'd  hev  bin  dade 
an'  berried,  an'  I  ain'  gwine  ter  furgit 
hit  neider." 

"  Mass  Charlie,"  cried  Nathan  as 
we  were  driving  off,  "you  wuz  mis- 
tooken  'about  dat  oder  nigger.  Sally 
say  noboddy  ain'  wanten  to  marry  her 
ceppen  me." 

"  Is  n't  that  too  much  ?"  I  exclaimed. 
"  Fancy  her  letting  him  know." 

Charlie  looked  pensively  at  his 
whip.  "  You  would  n't  advise  a  false 
hood,  I  'm  sure  ! " 

"  Of  course  not,"  indignantly  ;  "  but 
there  are  ways  of  doing  these  things." 

He  laughed  unrestrainedly.  "  Yes," 
he  agreed  ;  "  there  are  certainly  ways." 


[127] 


IX 

THE  MISTRESS   OF   OAKWOOD 

MRS.  DAMERON  laid  down  her 
book.  "  It  seems  to  me, 
Mary,"  she  said,  "that  life 
grows  more  difficult  every  day ;  for 
those,  I  mean,  who  are  out  in  the 
world,  in  the  midst  of  the  strain  and 
stress.  I  regard  it  as  an  actual  bless 
ing  to  be  allowed  to  vegetate  and  live 
forgotten  in  this  far-away  corner  of  the 
globe,"  and  she  smiled  and  looked  out 
at  the  grassy  yard  with  contented 
eyes. 

Fred  had  gone  to  town  on  business 
and  I  was  spending  a  week  at  Oak- 
wood. 

A  great,  gaunt,  brick  house,  with 
many  wings  and  numerous  out-build 
ings,  it  had  formerly  been  the  show 
place  of  the  parish,  and  even  now  was 
[128] 


H,  THE    MISTRESS    OF   OAKWOOD  €1 

stately  and  imposing-looking  in  its 
pathetic  decay. 

The  conservatories  were  empty,  the 
billiard  rooms  deserted.  In  the  stables 
once  famous  for  their  thoroughbreds 
two  lean  horses  ruminated  over  past 
glories,  while  the  carriage-house 
sheltered  a  lopsided  old  buggy  in  place 
of  the  brilliant  equipages  that  had 
once  dazzled  the  parish. 

But,  for  all  that,  it  still  kept  its  dis 
tinctive  charm. 

The  war  had  laid  a  heavy  hand  on 
Oak  wood ;  the  iron  grasp  of  military 
authority,  from  which  it  had  never 
recovered. 

A  negro  regiment  had  camped  upon 
the  lawns  and  drilled  beneath  the 
library  windows ;  a  shattered  mirror 
in  the  great  dining-room  told  the  story 
of  an  officers'  midnight  supper,  and  a 
bullet-hole  in  the  study  wall  was  a 
mute  memento  of  a  drunken  sergeant's 
morning  call. 

Many  years  had  come  and  gone 
9  '  [129] 


since  then,  and  the  bitterness  of  inter 
necine  strife  had  long  since  passed 
away,  but  the  Oakwood  exchequer 
had  never  been  heavy  enough  at  any 
time  to  permit  of  repairs  to  the  old 
home. 

"  But,  as  I  was  saying,  Mary,"  re 
peated  Mrs.  Dameron,  "  every  life  has 
its  compensations.  Now,  some  people 
would  find  the  humdrum  existence  we 
lead  here  quite  unbearable,  but  you 
and  I  never  tire  of  it,  do  we  ? " 

"  No,"  I  replied,  "  but  we  mightn't 
like  it  if  we  had  never  known  any 
other." 

"That  is  true,"  she  agreed,  "it 
makes  a  difference ; "  and  she  fell  to 
dreaming  of  a  past  in  which  monotony 
had  played  no  part. 

I  looked  across  at  her  —  at  the  beau 
tiful,  aristocratic  features  whose  charm 
time  could  never  destroy  —  with  the 
admiration  I  had  always  felt.  Her 
dark-blue  eyes  with  their  jetty  lashes 
were  the  eyes  of  a  woman  to  whom 
[130] 


€t  THE    MISTRESS    or   OAKWOOD  €[ 

life  had  brought  many  experiences, 
and  the  lovely  serenity  of  cheek  and 
brow  was  that  of  one  who  had  fought 
her  battles  patiently  and  well,  with 
faith  throughout  in  a  merciful  Provi 
dence. 

I  wondered  what  her  thoughts  were 
as  she  gazed  absently  across  the  yard 
towards  the  long  gray  line  of  the 
levee. 

It  was  that  golden  hour  of  the  after 
noon  when  a  haze  lay  over  the  gardens, 
when  long  shadows  fell  across  the 
grass,  and  yellow  butterflies  idled 
among  the  roses.  A  faint  breeze 
stirred  the  leaves  and  a  bird's  song  cut 
the  silence  like  a  call. 

Mrs.  Dameron,  in  her  white  dress 
and  black  ribbons,  with  her  air  of 
graceful  distinction  and  repose,  looked 
unmistakably  the  great  lady,  the  chat 
elaine  of  some  handsome  establish 
ment,  rather  than  the  impoverished 
mistress  of  a  half-ruined  home. 

The  little  hands  lying  on  her  knee 
[131] 


C;BAYOU    TR 

were  rough  and  toil-stained,  and  the 
shoe  showing  beneath  her  summer 
gown  was  patched  in  more  than  one 
place,  but  the  low-toned  voice  and  ex 
quisite  smile  made  one  forgetful  of 
everything  else. 

Though  I  knew  that  for  many  years 
she  had  struggled  daily  with  the 
weary  problem  of  making  both  ends 
meet,  I  was  never  able  to  think  of  her 
without  the  glamouring  environment 
of  wealth  and  ease,  the  purple  and  fine 
linen  to  which  she  had  been  born. 

Often  in  need  herself,  she  was  never 
too  poor  to  offer  shelter  to  some  one 
poorer,  and  in  consequence  Oakwood 
House  was  an  asylum  for  all  the  waifs 
and  strays  of  the  neighborhood. 

It  was  generally  some  distant  con 
nection,  some  worn-out  old  man  tem 
porarily  out  of  work,  or  a  penniless 
woman  face  to  face  with  starvation, 
not  knowing  where  to  turn.  She  gave 
them  a  gracious  hospitality  in  which 
there  was  no  element  of  charity  to 
[132] 


H  THE    MISTRESS   OF    OAKWOOD  41 

hurt  an  easily  wounded  pride  or  sting 
a  spirit  made  sensitive  by  misfortune. 

To-day  as  we  sat  together,  some 
times  reading  and  sometimes  looking 
up  from  our  books  to  exchange  a  word 
or  two,  an  old  man  in  a  rusty  black 
suit  and  carpet  slippers  ambled  around 
the  corner  of  the  house.  He  had  a 
discontented  face  and  suspicious  eyes. 

"  Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Dameron  as  he 
came  up,  "  this  is  Colonel  Wilmer  Gra 
ham.  Cousin  Wilmer,  Miss  Rasley.  I 
daresay  you  knew  her  grandfather." 

Colonel  Wilmer  Graham  may  at 
some  remote  period  of  his  existence 
have  known  how  to  make  himself 
agreeable,  but  if  so  he  had  long  ago 
forgotten  it,  and  I  was  relieved  when 
after  a  few  grumbling  sentences  he 
disappeared  into  the  hall. 

Mrs.  Dameron  smiled  across  at  me. 

"  He  is  very  old,  Mary." 

I  did  not  answer. 

"  And  very  helpless." 

Still  I  did  not  speak,  for  his  un- 
[133] 


TRISTE€[ 

gracious  acceptance  of  her  kindness 
had  angered  me. 

"  There  is  nothing,"  she  went  on, 
"that  appeals  to  me  more  than  old 
age,  especially  incompetent,  dependent 
old  age  ;  it  is  infinitely  pathetic." 

"  He  might  have  been  more  cour 
teous,"  I  said. 

"  Of  course,  but  he  has  had  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  and  we  must  make  al 
lowances.  It  is  hard  to  do  so  when 
we  are  young,  I  know ;  for  I  was  as 
intolerant  as  you  are  once,  Mary,  but 
I  have  grown  wiser  with  age." 

"  I  think  you  were  always  good,"  I 
exclaimed. 

"You  are  an  excellent  tonic,"  she 
laughed  back ;  "if  I  listened  to  you  I 
should  end  by  having  a  very  fine 
opinion  of  myself." 

A  big  white  hen  and  her  noisy 
brood  strolled  across  the  grass,  inter 
rupting  our  conversation.  I  looked 
at  them  enviously.  "  You  have  such 
luck,"  I  sighed.  "  Priscilla's  last  set- 
[134] 


C  THE    MISTRESS    OF   OAKWOOD  €t 

ting  was  a  perfect  failure,  and  I  know 
the  eggs  were  good,  for  I  bought  them 
myself  from  Madame  Jean  Philippe." 

"Did  you  hear  her  granddaughter 
had  returned  ? " 

"  No,  but  I  am  very  glad." 

"  I  heard  she  did  not  intend  to  re 
ceive  her,  but  I  suppose  the  ties  of 
blood  were  too  strong.  This  is  a  piti 
ful  world,  Mary." 

"Miss  Marg'ret,"  said  old  Sukey's 
voice  behind  us,  "  big  Mary's  Betsey 
say  pleas'm  step  down  an'  tek  a  look 
at  her  baby  ;  she  feared  he  gwine  ter 
die." 

Mrs.  Dameron  rose  instantly.  "  Get 
the  paregoric  and  peppermint  out  of 
the  medicine  chest,  Sukey,"  she  or 
dered.  "  1 11  be  back  in  a  few  min 
utes,  Mary ;  I  suppose  you  can  amuse 
yourself  while  I  am  away." 

For  a  time    I  lay  back   in  the  big 
rocking-chair   on  the  gallery,  content 
to  be  alone  and  watch  the  passers-by 
on  the  road  beyond. 
[135] 


€t  BAYOU    TRISTE  ft 

They  were  few  and  far  between  ; 
now  it  was  an  old  negro  jogging  past 
on  a  rusty  mule,  now  a  tip-tilted 
baker's  cart,  its  faded  gray  sides  show 
ing  over  the  top  of  the  Cherokee  hedge. 
Once  Dr.  Starr's  new  buggy  flashed  past, 
followed  by  the  Pattonville  stage  with 
its  tired  horses  and  dusty  passengers. 

A  red-sailed  oyster  lugger  drifted 
dreamily  down  the  bayou,  and  a  swift 
moving  steamboat  sent  the  waves 
tossing  over  the  top  of  the  levee. 

I  got  up  and  went  inside,  for  the 
high-water  situation  was  too  much  for 
my  nerves. 

After  lingering  awhile  in  the  sweet- 
scented  old  hall  I  wandered  into  the 
drawing-room.  As  I  entered  the  door 
the  picture  between  the  windows 
seemed  to  spring  from  its  frame  to 
greet  me. 

It  was  of  a  young  girl  in  the  riding 

dress  of  the  day,  with  her  whip  in  her 

hand,  her   dog    at    her   feet,  but     so 

spirited,  so  lifelike  in  the  perfection  of 

[136] 


H  THE    MISTRESS   OF  OAKWOOD  €1 

its  coloring,  that  it  was  difficult  to  be 
lieve  it  a  mere  portrait.  On  the  oppo 
site  wall  was  its  match,  the  picture  of 
a  young  man  in  the  uniform  of  a  Con 
federate  captain.  Both  paintings  were 
the  work  of  an  artist,  and  were  distin 
guished  by  their  singular  look  of 
radiant  youth. 

I  glanced  from  one  to  the  other, 
scarcely  knowing  which  delighted  me 
most ;  the  boyish  husband  who  had  laid 
down  his  life  at  Winchester,  or  the 
young  wife  looking  with  untroubled 
eyes  upon  a  world  that  had  brought 
her  so  much  sorrow. 

"  Mary,"  called  Mrs.  Dameron  from 
the  hall,  "  where  are  you  ?  Dreaming 
dreams  in  the  twilight  ?  Bring  us  some 
lights,  Sukey." 

"  Was  the  baby  really  ill  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  no,  the  usual  thing  —  impru 
dent  eating.  They  have  no  judgment 
-  no  sense.  In  some  respects  slavery 
was  better  for  them,  they  are  noth 
ing  but  children,  —  ignorant,  helpless 
[137] 


children,  —  after  all ! "  Her  voice 
sounded  tired. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Dameron,"  I  cried ; 
"  will  you  give  me  this  portrait  of 
yourself  some  day  ?  I  would  not  ask 
it  if  there  were  any  one  else." 

To  my  surprise  her  eyes  shone 
with  intense  gratitude.  "  How  like 
you  !  "  she  said  ;  "  you  have  guessed 
my  trouble.  How  I  dread  to  die  and 
leave  nobody  to  care  what  becomes  of 
those  poor  bits  of  canvas  !  Sometimes, 
Mary,  I  have  thought  of  burning  them, 
of  cutting  them  to  strips  with  my  own 
hands,  rather  than  leave  them  to  be  a 
tax  and  worry  to  indifferent  connec 
tions.  I  was  in  a  shop  once  in  New 
Orleans  and  saw  a  great  heap  of  por 
traits,  the  De  Folin  family's,  piled 
against  the  wall  and  covered  over  with 
dust  and  mold  and  cobwebs.  It  dis 
tressed  me  beyond  expression  and 
broke  my  heart  to  think  that  some 
day  that  might  be  our  fate." 

"  Give  them  both  to  me,"  I  cried ; 
[138] 


H,  THE    MISTRESS    OF   OAKWOOD  C 

"  and  I  will  take  such  care  of  them  ! 
You  are  not  afraid  to  trust    me,  are 

you?" 

"  Need  you  ask  ?  "  she  said,  stooping 
to  give  me  one  of  her  rare  kisses. 
"And  now  let  us  have  some  music 
while  Sukey  is  preparing  tea." 

"  Sing  to  me,"  I  pleaded  ;  "  I  am  so 
tired  of  my  own  songs." 

"  As  you  wish,"  and  she  seated  her 
self  at  the  piano  and  ran  her  fingers 
over  the  keys.  Song' after  song  floated 
through  the  great  room,  old-fashioned 
melodies  whose  yellowed  sheets  I  had 
seen  in  my  mother's  portfolio.  Then 
after  a  momentary  pause  she  began 
again  : 

"  Forget  ?     Ah,  no,  no  boon  't  would  be 
To  seal  the  lips  of  Memory, 
To  quaff  the  Lethean  draught  and  glide 
Down  cold  oblivion's  icy  tide. 

"  Amidst  the  world's  despair  and  strife 
We  learn  the  bitterness  of  life. 
We  miss  the  sunshine,  lose  the  flowers, 
But  oh,  the  past  is  always  ours  ! 

[139] 


HBAYOU 

"  The  happy  past  when  hearts  were  young, 
When  love  came  tripping  from  the  tongue, 
When  Hope  low  breathed  of  joys  to  be  — 

Forget  ?     Nay,  life  is  Memory  ! " 

Her  voice  died  away;  the  low, 
lovely  voice,  full  of  tenderness  and 
sympathy. 

I  sat  at  the  window,  gazing  into  the 
gathering  twilight.  When  she  fin 
ished  I  did  not  even  turn  around  to 
thank  her  —  there  was  no  necessity, 
—  she  understood. 

I  was  thinking  of  her  life,  of  the 
youth  that  had  begun  so  brilliantly, 
and  I  found  myself  wondering  what 
my  own  story  would  be  twenty  years 
from  then.  Would  I  too  — 

"  Mary,"  laughed  a  soft  voice  at  my 
side  ;  "  wake  up  I  Old  Sukey  has 
called  us  twice  to  tea,  and  here  is 
Cousin  Wilmer." 


[140] 


X 

WHEN  THE  WATERS   CAME   UP 

I  TRIED  vainly  to  hold  my 
thoughts  together ;  in  spite  of 
myself  they  wandered  to  the  levee, 
where  Fred  and  Charlie  Donald  and 
old  Colonel  Lossing,  assisted  by  all 
the  able-bodied  men  of  the  neighbor 
hood,  were  fighting  what  seemed  to  be 
a  hopeless  fight  against  the  water. 

An  hour  ago,  as  I  drove  past,  I 
stopped  a  moment  to  watch  the  men 
striving  with  logs  and  timber  outworks 
and  bags  of  earth  to  keep  out  the 
enemy. 

Then  behind  Uncle  Ephr'um's  broad 
back  I  had  shed  a  quiet  tear  or  two  all 
to  myself. 

Fred,  catching  sight  of  me,  waved 
his  hat  from  the  pile  of  lumber  where 
he  stood,  and  Charlie  came  running 
[141] 


down  to  the  carriage  to  ask  me  to  pray 
my  hardest  that  the  levee  would  hold, 
and  I  had  tried  hard  to  make  some  gay 
response  and  had  failed  signally. 

Now  as  I  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  big 
pew  I  was  paying  but  slight  heed  to 
the  service.  Mr.  Pyrl's  earnest  voice, 
the  choir's  musical  grotesqueries,  the 
snores  of  old  Mr.  Gaston  in  the  pew 
behind  me  formed  part  of  a  drowsy 
whole  of  which  I  was  conscious  but 
unheeding. 

Through  the  open  windows  came 
the  odor  of  new-cut  grass  and  the 
heavy  perfume  of  lilies.  The  rectory 
yard  rioted  with  blooms,  and  a  great 
bumble-bee,  drunk  with  the  sweetness 
of  blush-roses,  wandered  aimlessly  into 
the  church  to  delight  the  children  by 
his  waverings. 

Mr.  Pyrl's  old  cook  sat  on  the  rectory 
gallery  shelling  peas ;  she  was  hum 
ming  to  herself  in  decorous  under 
tones,  her  head  nodding  as  she  worked. 

A  dominicker  chicken  with  yellow 
[142] 


€t  WHEN  THE  WATERS  CAME  UP  €1 

legs  and  featherless  wings  came  cau 
tiously  up  the  steps.  He  paused  with 
his  head  on  one  side,  his  eye  shining 
brightly,  to  reflect  upon  the  situation. 
Old  Lisa,  overcome  by  religious  fervor, 
closed  her  eyes  as  she  swayed  back  and 
forth. 

The  chicken,  encouraged  by  her  in 
difference,  drew  a  step  nearer,  and  after 
a  moment's  indecision  sprang  boldly 
upon  the  pan.  There  was  a  crash  —  a 
smothered  scream,  the  pan  went  one 
way,  the  chicken  the  other,  while  Lisa, 
thus  rudely  recalled  to  things  mundane, 
surveyed  the  ruin  with  darkly  brood 
ing  eyes. 

I  brought  my  reluctant  gaze  indoors 
to  meet  Mrs.  Dameron's  smile ;  she 
too  had  been  looking  out.  Mr.  Pyrl, 
blissfully  unconscious  of  our  backslid- 
ings,  gave  out  the  hymn. 

We  rose  resignedly  and  the  choir 
fell  manfully  to  work. 

The  second  verse  was  trailing  its 
mournful    length     along    when     the 
[143]   ' 


church-door  opened.  There  was  a  rus 
tle  of  silken  skirts,  a  faint  odor  of  vio 
lets,  and  Mrs.  Keith  Ewing  drifted 
languidly  down  the  aisle  to  her  pew. 

The  congregation,  fast  becoming 
somnolent,  roused  to  new  life.  Gowns 
like  Mrs.  Ewing's  were  not  often  seen 
in  Vieuxtemps  church. 

Old  Mrs.  Grant  bent  her  beribboned 
bonnet  into  the  next  pew.  "When 
did  she  come  ? "  she  asked  in  a  loud 
stage  aside. 

"  Last  night,"  replied  her  neighbor 
in  the  same  wheezy  whisper  ;  "  high- 
water  brought  them,  —  her  and  her 
husband." 

I  listened  interestedly,  for  the  E  wings 
were  our  near  neighbors.  They  were 
rarely  at  home,  however,  spending  most 
of  their  time  in  town,  where  they  found 
amusements  more  congenial  than  the 
country  could  provide. 

Not  yet  twenty-five,  married  to  a 
man  several  years  her  senior,  mistress 
of  a  handsome  home,  and  one  of  the 
[144] 


€t  WHEN  THE  WATERS  CAME  UP  €t 

petted  leaders  of  an  eminently  exclu 
sive  society,  there  were  many  who 
found  it  in  their  hearts  to  envy  Mrs. 
Ewing,  but  I,  who  had  accidentally 
stumbled  on  the  inside  history  of  her 
marriage,  was  not  one  of  them. 

We  had  been  good  friends  and  con 
stantly  together  when  I  too  "dwelt 
in  Babylon,"  but  of  late  years  we  had 
drifted  somewhat  apart.  Not  that  we 
cared  the  less,  but  circumstances  had 
prevented  our  meeting  and  diverse  in 
terests  had  allowed  us  to  idly  acquiesce 
in  the  separation. 

But  I  felt  an  interest  in  her  always, 
often  wondering  what  would  be  the 
outcome  of  her  hasty  marriage,  made 
in  pique  and  without  affection. 

Gratified  ambition  and  social  vic 
tories  might  content  some  women,  but 
I  knew  Agnes  Ewing  too  well  to 
believe  that  they  would  satisfy  her. 
The  restless,  ardent  nature,  which 
masked  itself  under  a  careless  world- 
liness  that  deceived  many,  demanded 
10  [  145  ] 


more  of  life  than  the  empty  triumphs 
that  fill  the  cup  of  some. 

To-day  as  I  glanced  at  her  dark 
head  bent  reverently  over  her  clasped 
hands  I  would  have  given  much  to 
have  known  the  tenor  of  her  prayer. 

The  sermon  began,  a  genuine,  old- 
fashioned  appeal  to  Christians ;  not  a 
theological  discourse  glittering  with 
epigrams  and  meaningless  phrases. 

I  listened  intently,  ashamed  of  my 
former  inattention ;  Mr.  Gaston's 
snores  ceased,  Mrs.  Dameron's  eyes 
deepened  sympathetically,  and  Agnes 
Ewing's  lovely  face  lost  its  accustomed 
look  of  patient  boredom. 

"  Make  the  most  of  your  opportuni 
ties,"  concluded  the  rector  ;  "  life  is  full 
of  disappointments  and  heart-aches,  but 
are  we  not  often  responsible  for  them  ? 
Do  we  not  make  our  own  tragedies  ? 
If  we  were  more  patient,  if  we  would 
eliminate  self  and  recall  that  love 
'suffereth  all  things,  endureth  all 
things,  hopeth  all  things,'  and  would 
[146] 


€£  WHEN  THE  WATERS  CAME  UP  €1 

put  aside  the  petty  vanity  and  foolish 
pride  that  hamper  our  best  efforts  and 
strive  each  in  his  own  way  to  bring 
some  sunshine  into  the  lives  of  others, 
there  would  be  fewer  moments  of  de 
spondency  and  despair. 

"  *  She  loveth  much,'  saith  the 
Master.  Ah,  my  brethren,  shall  we 
not  so  live  that  at  the  last,  when  we 
come  to  lay  our  burdens  down,  it  will 
be  remembered  of  us,  not  our  short 
comings,  not  our  sins,  not  our  many 
faults  and  omissions,  but  that  we 
loved  much  ?  " 

Simple  words  enough,  and  not  even 
marked  by  originality,  but  spoken  so 
earnestly  and  with  such  evident  con 
viction  that  no  one  could  listen  un 
moved. 

When  we  streamed  out  into  the 
sunshine,  momentarily  subdued  and 
thoughtful,  Mrs.  Ewing  joined  me. 

"  Have  pity  on  me,"  she  said  when 
having  exchanged  greetings  we  were 
about  to  part,  "  ask  me  up  to  dinner 
[147] 


CtBAYOU     TRISTEft 

with  you.  Keith  told  me  not  to 
expect  him,  and  it  is  horribly  lonely 
in  that  big  old  house." 

"  Come,  by  all  means,"  I  said  ;  "  this 
is  Priscilla's  evening  out,  and  we  may 
dine  on  bread  and  water,  but  you  are 
very  welcome." 

"  I  know  Priscilla  of  old,"  she  said, 
sweeping  her  silken  skirts  into  the  old 
barouche.  "  You  cannot  frighten  me 
off." 

"  I  suppose  the  high  water  brought 
you  down,"  I  said  as  we  jogged  along  ; 
"that's  the  first  good  thing  it  has 
accomplished." 

"  What  a  pretty  speech,  Mary,"  she 
said  ;  "  and,  would  you  believe  it,  I  'm 
just  trusting  enough  to  think  you  mean 
it." 

"  Because  you  know  how  foolishly 
weak  I  am  about  you." 

"  Not  foolishly,  but  sensibly,  pru 
dently  so,"  she  laughed. 

"  Tell  me  something  of  yourself,"  I 
went  on,  turning  to  look  into  eyes  that 
[148] 


€t  WHEN  THE  WATERS  CAME  UP  €£ 

seemed  to  me  to  have  grown  darker 
and  deeper.  "  Is  much  going  on  in 
town  ? " 

"  Mercifully  no." 

"  So  you  had  time  to  remember  us  ? " 

"  I  always  remember  you  ;  indeed,  I 
don't  think  you  realize  how  much  I 
miss  you.  You  were  such  a  comfort, 
Mary  ;  you  always  saw  the  same  amus 
ing  things  I  saw.  I  would  have  loved 
you  for  that  alone,  and  now  there  is 
nobody. " 

"  How  about  Mrs.  Kinzel  ?  I  hear 
you  are  very  intimate." 

"A  friendship  de  convenance"  she 
said.  "At  first  she  was  bearable,  but 
lately,  since  she  has  begun  to  be  taken 
up  and  invited  around,  she  has  become 
quite  impossible." 

"  She  owes  it  all  to  you,"  I  re 
marked. 

"  O  my  dear,  she  has  already  for 
gotten  that." 

"I  never  liked  her.  Ah,"  looking 
towards  the  levee,  "  there  they  are ; 
[149] 


«H  B  A  Y  O  U     T  R  I  S  T  E  d; 

that's  Mr.  Donald  in  gray  and  Fred 
in  the  dark-blue  shirt.  Does  n't  look 
much  like  a  cotillion  leader,  does  he  ? " 

"  Do  you  see  my  husband  ? " 

"  No  ;  I  suppose  he 's  up  above  some 
where.  I  'm  going  to  stop  and  ask  the 
latest  news."  A  little  Creole  came 
down,  lifting  his  hat  as  we  drew  up. 

"  Any  change  ? "  I  asked,  as  one 
would  inquire  about  an  invalid. 

"Not  much,  madame ;  we  found  a 
weak  spot  at  Grasslands,  but  we  patched 
it  up  before  it  did  any  great  harm." 

"  How  will  it  all  end  ? " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders :  "  It 
must  break  somewhere,"  he  said. 

Priscilla's  dinner  was  everything  to 
be  desired,  but  Agnes  and  I  did  scant 
justice  to  it,  our  informant's  parting 
words  having  taken  the  savor  out  of 
life. 

Whose   place   would    go  ?     Would 

the  break  be  on  this  side  of  the  bayou, 

or  would  a  merciful  Providence  ordain 

that   it    occur    on    the    other    bank  ? 

[150] 


H  WHEN  THE  WATERS  CAME  UP  H 

And  when  would   it  be  ?     To-night, 
this  afternoon,  to-morrow? 

"  Come  into  the  garden,"  I  said, 
"you're  not  eating  a  mouthful  and 
neither  am  I." 

"  It  is  not  your  fault,"  said  Agnes  to 
Priscilla,  who  had  witnessed  our  neg 
lect  of  her  viands  with  rising  anger ; 
"nothing  could  have  been  nicer." 

"  'T  ain'  no  use  ter  cook  dese  days," 
she  grumbled,  "  Mass'  Fred  don'  eat 
enuff  ter  keep  a  bird  alive  an'  Miss 
Mary  ain  much  better." 

"  We  've  been  on  a  dreadful  strain 
here,"  I  explained.  "  Of  course  it  is 
worse  for  Fred  - 

"  No  it  is  n't,"  broke  in  Agnes, "  there 
is  something  he  can  do ;  he  does  n't 
have  to  sit  with  folded  hands  and  wait. 
That  is  the  horror  of  being  a  woman  — 
the  waiting.  Oh,  Mary,  how  sweet 
the  old  garden  is,  -  -  not  a  thing 
changed." 

"  No.     Kate  says  she  believes  if  she 
came  back  a  hundred  years  from  now 
[151] 


TRISTE  €1 

she  would  find  the  same  mocking 
birds  and  butterflies  and  roses  she  had 
left  behind." 

"  I  saw  Kate  yesterday.  She  sent 
you  her  best  love.  Your  brother  is  a 
fortunate  fellow." 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.  I  am  very  fond 
of  her.  I  know  they  will  be  happy." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that ! "  she  shrugged 
her  shoulders. 

"  Cynicism, "  I  cried,  "  on  such  a 
lovely  day." 

"  I  'm  no  cynic,"  she  retorted,  "  I 
wish  I  were.  I  'm  a  poor  fool  crying 
for  the  moon  ;  whose  bitterness  against 
the  hopelessness  of  life  finds  expression 
in  words.  Your  real  cynic  never  rants  ; 
he  accepts  everything  as  a  matter  of 
course.  It  is  the  idealist  who  cries 
out,  the  dreamer  who  is  always  hoping 
against  hope.  The  people  who  begin 
by  demanding  much  of  life  are  those 
that  end  by  expecting  nothing." 

"Do  you  demand  much ? "  I  asked. 

"  I  am  a  woman,"  she  said. 
[152] 


H  WHEN  THE  W  ATERS  CAME  UP  H 

I  laughed.     "  How  very  oracular." 

"  Or  comprehensive,"  she  corrected. 
"  By  the  way,  I  have  n't  offered  you  my 
good  wishes  yet ;  I  have  never  met  Mr. 
Delancey,  but  I  hear  he  is  altogether 
desirable  and  I  feel  sure- 

"  Don't !  "  I  cried,  breaking  in  on  the 
smoothly  turned  phrases,  "  you  don't 
mean  a  word  of  all  that.  You  are 
thinking  at  this  very  moment  how 
foolish  I  am  to  be  so  happy ;  that  it 
is  not  going  to  last,  and  that  I  shall 
some  day  come  to  the  end  of  my 
dream." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  was." 

"  But  I  will  not,  Agnes ;  it  will  be 
the  same  fifty  years  from  now." 

"We  all  think  that.  But  how 
strange  you  should  guess  my  thoughts  ; 
you  are  very  clever." 

"  Not  at  all,  but  I  know  you." 

"  Well  that  is  more  than  I  do  my 
self." 

"  You  said  you  were  crying  for  the 
moon,  so  I  infer  you  are  dissatisfied." 
[153] 


"  Oh,  wise  young  judge  !  "  she 
mocked. 

"  And  knowing  also  your  intensity 
of  purpose,  and  your  capacity  for  get 
ting  what  you  want,  I  go  a  step  far 
ther  and  conclude  that  the  particular 
moon  in  question  is  something  forbid 
den  to  you." 

She  laughed,  but  rather  sadly. 

"'Forbidden'  sounds  so  Frenchy, 
Mary.  It 's  nothing  I  should  n't  have, 
but  something  I  want  very  badly,  and 
threw  away  with  my  own  hands." 

I  stared  at  her  in  silence  ;  what  could 
she  refer  to  but  the  old  love  affair  that 
I  hoped  she  had  forgotten. 

"  Why,  how  pale  you  are,"  she  cried, 
"  have  I  said  anything  - 

"  No,  nothing,"  I  answered  hastily. 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  had  some  uncom 
plimentary  thought  about  me,  Mary ; 
you  looked  positively  frightened. 
Don't  worry.  I  '11  never  do  anything 
out  of  the  way,  even  supposing  that 
I  wanted  to.  I  'm  like  the  old  lady 
[154] 


€t  WHEN  THE  WATERS  CAME  UP  €£ 

in  the  play  who  said  she  was  too  proud 
to  do  wrong.  It 's  a  good  thing,  pride, 
in  its  way." 

"  You  could  n't  have  listened  to  the 
sermon,"  I  said,  "  and  you  looked  so 
attentive  ;  what  a  fraud  you  are,  after 
all." 

"  I  did  n't  miss  a  word  ;  he  preached 
on  love.  I  thought  it  an  odd  theme 
for  a  little,  lonely,  gray-haired  bachelor. 
I  wondered  if  he  had  ever  had  an  affair 
in  his  life." 

I  tried  to  look  unconcerned,  but  was 
miserably  conscious  of  my  rising  color 
and  the  amused  expression  in  Agnes' 
dark  eyes. 

"  So,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  ob 
servation,  "that  is  how  you  employ 
your  time.  No  wonder  you  are  not 
bored  out  here.  '  You  thought  to  break 
a  country  heart,'  etc.  Fie,  Mary,  I 
thought  better  things  of  you." 

Before  I  could  reply,  Joe  came  dash 
ing  across  the  yard,  crying  at  the  top 
of  his  voice,  "  She  done  bruk  !  de  levee 
[155] 


done  bus  !    Glory,  glory,  de  bank  done 
gone." 

Agnes  and  I  were  on  our  feet  in  an 
instant.  "Where?"  I  cried  franti 
cally,  "where?  Don't  you  hear  me, 
you  wretched  little  boy  ?  On  what 
place?" 

But  he  was  gone  without  answering, 
back  to  the  levee,  whither  Agnes  and 
I  hastened  to  follow  him.  We  fairly 
flew  over  the  grass,  with  utter  disre 
gard  for  our  skirts  ;  now  stumbling 
over  a  root,  now  stopping  a  moment 
to  catch  a  hurried  breath.  Agnes 
went  so  much  faster  than  I  that  I 
stared  at  her  in  amazement. 

"  Why  should  you  care  so  much  ?  " 
I  panted,  "  even  if  your  place  goes,  - 
it  is  —  not  —  your  all !  " 

"  Keith  would  care  so,"  she  answered, 
"  he  never  says  a  great  deal ;  that  is 
not  his  way ;  but  his  heart  is  wrapped 
up  in  the  'Cedars."1 

A  light  began  to  break  upon  me  ;  the 
unexpected  had  happened  ;  far   from 
[156] 


H  WHEN  THE  WATERS  CAME  UP  €£ 

regretting  the  old  affair  she  had  fallen 
in  love  with  her  own  husband.  The 
moon  she  was  crying  for  was  his 
affection. 

My  thoughts  came  disconnectedly 
as  I  raced  along,  but  of  one  thing  I 
felt  sure ;  if  Keith  Ewing  knew  the 
truth,  her  happiness  would  not  be  long 
in  coming. 

He  had  been  very  much  in  love 
with  her  at  the  time  of  their  marriage, 
and  while  her  indifference  might  have 
done  much  to  chill  a  younger  man,  I 
knew  an  affection  like  his  was  not 
easily  outlived. 

The  front  gate  fortunately  hap 
pened  to  be  open,  and  we  dashed 
through  it  and  up  the  levee  without 
ceremony. 

"  Where  is  everybody  ? "  I  cried,  sur 
prised  by  the  semi-deserted  appearance 
of  things.  "  Fred  !  Charlie  !  somebody, 
come  here  ! " 

"  Look  ! "  cried  Agnes,  grasping  at 
my  arm  and  speaking  in  a  strained, 
[  157  ] 


4HBAYOU    TR 

unnatural  voice,  "  yonder  —  across  the 
bayou  —  the  bank  is  gone  ! " 

It  was  indeed  true.  Southmeade, 
Grasslands,  Oakwood,  the  "  Cedars " 
were  safe  ;  the  crevasse  was  opposite. 

I  felt  ashamed  of  my  sudden  rush  of 
relieved  joy. 

"  Those  poor  people,"  I  murmured 
contritely,  staring  at  the  broken  banks, 
the  rushing  water,  the  desolate,  miser 
able  scene  with  sympathetic  eyes. 

"Pitiful,  isn't  it?"  said  a  man's 
voice  at  my  elbow,  "  one  man's  meat 
is  another  man's  poison." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Ewing,"  I  cried,  "  was  it 
not  very  unexpected  ? " 

"  Yes,  we  thought  the  break  would  be 
at  my  place.  I  had  just  ordered  the 
men  to  a  place  of  safety  when  there 
was  a  loud  report,  like  a  cannon  shot, 
and  we  saw  the  whole  bank  opposite 
part  in  two  and  slide  backwards  into 
the  road.  It  was  a  horrible  sight,  yet 
I  can't  pretend  to  be  sorry.  It  saved 
our  place." 

[158] 


€£  WHEN  THE  WATERS  CAME  UP  4H 

"  Can  it  be  closed  ? "  I  asked,  con 
scious  of  the  guilty  hope  that  it  could 
not  be. 

"  Hardly ;  not  at  this  stage  of  the 
water  anyhow.  We  are  going  over 
there  now  to  see  what  we  can  do. 
They  were  taken  by  surprise,  for  they 
thought  their  levee  comparatively  safe  ; 
crayfish  holes,  I  suppose.  Your  brother 
and  young  Donald  have  already  gone, 
and  I  only  waited  to  see  you  two  and 
relieve  your  minds." 

"  That  was  very  kind  of  you.  We 
have  been  dreadfully  anxious.  Agnes 
has  been  positively  wretched." 

"  Agnes  ? "  surprisedly.  "  Why  —  my 

-  why  —  Agnes,  what  is  it  ?  "  for  the 

tears  were  streaming  down  her  face, 

and  she  was  trembling  from  head  to 

foot. 

"It  is  the  relief,"  she  stammered.  "I 
was  frightened  to  death;  I  thought  it  was 
the  '  Cedars,'  and  I  knew  how  much  you 
loved  it — what  it  would  mean  to  you," 

"  You  care  ?  "  he  began. 
[159] 


But  I  had  strolled  out  of  hearing, 
apparently  absorbed  in  the  dreary 
scene  opposite. 

That  night,  however,  after  a  merry 
supper,  -  -  the  reactionary  result  of 
days  of  suspense  -  -  when  the  men 
were  lingering  over  their  cigars  and 
Agnes  and  I  were  alone,  she  laid  her 
cheek  against  mine  with  the  grace 
that  characterized  her,  and  whispered  : 
"  You  said  I  usually  got  what  I  wanted, 
did  n't  you  ?  Well  you  were  right, 
Mary,  you  always  are.  The  moon  is 
mine  ! " 


[160] 


XI 

MA'   JANE'S   WEDDIN' 

AS  I  came  out  of  the  plantation 
dairy,  with  Joe  following  in 
my  wake,  I  met  "  ole  Simon's 
Marthy,"  an  old  woman  somewhere  on 
the  shady  side  of  seventy  years  ;  always 
grotesque  looking,  owing  to  her  sin 
gular  combination  of  garments,  which 
were  never  by  any  chance  of  the  same 
hue,  she  was  more  noticeable  than  usual 
to-day,  because  of  the  settled  gloom 
that  had  possession  of  her  features. 

"  Mornin',  Miss  Mary,"  she  said  with 
a  deep  curtsey,  "  you  sho'  is  a  good 
sight  fur  ole  eyes." 

Now  I  had  known  my  visitor  for 
many  years,  and  long  experience  had 
taught  me  that  a  conversation  begun 
in  this  flowery  fashion  eventually 
closed  with  an  appeal  for  assistance. 
11  [  161  ] 


"  You  have  n't  been  to  see  me  for 
an  age,"  I  said,  seating  myself  on  a 
stump.  ("  Joe,  take  that  pitcher  to  the 
kitchen.)  How  have  you  been  ? " 

"  Poly,  tank  the  Lord  !  Poly,  Miss 
Mary." 

"You  look  as  though  something 
had  worried  you." 

"  Yessum,  Ise  been  thru  deep  waters  ; 
my  gran'  darter,  Ma'  Jane  Vincent,  wuz 
married  larst  night :  yessum,  married 
ole  Sam  Farber's  son,  Jack,  him  what 's 
carpenter  on  de  Harrell  place." 

"  Why  that 's  a  very  good  match," 
I  said.  "  Mary  Jane,  if  I  remember, 
is  quite  a  pretty  girl." 

"  Yessum,  an'  a  good  gal  what  allus 
mines  her  own  bizness  an'  ain'  sputin 
wid  noboddy,  an'  't  ain'  her  fault  she 
dun  hed  de  trubble  she  bed  larst 
night." 

"  What  happened  ?  "  I  asked  sym 
pathetically. 

"  Why,  you  knows,  Miss  Mary,  ever 
sence  wese  bin  moved  ter  town,  dose 
[162] 


C;MA'   JANE'S 

low  down  niggers  on  toder  side  of  de 
canals  bin  mad  wid  us,  kase  we  don' 
wanter  'sociate  wid  'em ;  Ise  been 
useter  quality  folkses  an'  house  nig 
gers,  an'  hit  sho  duz  go  'ginst  me  ter 
put  up  wid  dem  town  trash  what  ain' 
got  de  manners  dey  wuz  born  wid." 

"  It 's  a  pity  you  did  n't  stay  on  the 
plantation,"  I  said  ;  for  I  knew  she  had 
only  moved  away  because  her  grand 
children  thought  they  would  be  more 
"  free  "  living  in  the  village  than  in  one 
of  our  cabins. 

"  Well,  Miss  Mary,"  she  said,  "  deres 
no  countin'  fur  tases ;  an'  de  chillun 
wuz  so  sot  on  movin',  I  jes'  hed  ter 
give  in  ;  but  I  reckon  ef  dey  knowed 
what  wuz  gwine  ter  happen  at  Ma' 
Jane's  weddin',  dey  'd  hev  been  satisfied 
whar  dey  wuz." 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  I  said. 

"  Yessum,  dat  's  jes  what  I  'm  gwine 
ter  do,  kase  I  knows  you  hez  a  kine 
hyart  an'  feels  sorry  fur  de  pore  an'  de 
pressed. 

[163] 


"  Well,  larst  night  we  'd  laid  off  ter 
hev  Ma'  Jane's  weddin',  an'  seein'  ez 
we  spressly  wanted  ter  hev  hit  'sleet, 
we  jes  axed  'bout  a  dozen  folkses 
ter  cum  ter  us  house  an'  sist.  De 
rooms  wuz  lookin'  reel  party-like  wid 
candles  settin'  'roun'  in  bottles,  an' 
we  sho  did  hev  a  fine  supper ;  roas' 
pig  an'  taters  an'  clabber  an'  corn- 
bread  an'  a  big  cake  in  de  middle 
of  de  table  what  Miss  Sally  Harrell 
sont  us  ;  an'  Simon  an'  me  'greed  ez 
nobody  cud  n't  hev  things  nicer  'n 
we  hed  'em."  She  paused  and  a 
look  of  intense  regret  swept  over  her 
face. 

"  Well,  Miss  Mary,  you  may  n' 
bleeve  hit,  but  jes  arfter  de  cerri- 
munny,  when  Brer  Hicks  hed  say  ter 
Ma'  Jane  an'  Jack  '  I  pernounces  you 
man  an'  wife,'  we  heerd  de  mos' 
scandellous  gwineson  in  de  street  out 
side  ;  yellin'  an'  cussin'  an'  sech  lan- 
gwidge  ez  ud  tun  yo'  hyar  gray ;  an' 
de  do'  clone  bus  open  an'  bout  twenty 
[164] 


4HMA'  JANE'S   WEDDIN'€[, 

of  dem  no    count  town  niggers   cum 
prancin'  in. 

"  Miss  Mary,  I  wuz  dat  flammergasted 
I  liketer  swooned.  Brer  Hicks  he 
Vance  an'  say,  sez  he,  '  Bredderin  an' 
Sistren,  dis  is  mos'  onchrisshen  gwine- 
son,  an'  I  vises  yo  ter  lebe  dese  premises, 
kase  sein'  ez  you  warnt  Vited  you  ain' 
got  no  call  ter  stay.' 

"Den  dat  big  black  nigger  Jeems 
Andrews  ups  an'  sez,  '  Brer  Hicks,  you 
keep  yo'  jawin'  fur  Sundays ;  dese  hyar 
folkses  puts  on  airs  an'  sidders  deyselves 
bettern  we  all,  an'  we  ain'  gwine  ter 
stan'  hit.'  An'  wid  dat,  Miss  Mary, 
chile,  fo'  you  kud  say  Jim  Robinson 
dey  dun  clar'd  off  every  blessed  thing 
on  de  table  —  pig  an'  clabber  an'  lasses 
an'  taters  an'  cake  ;  dey  all  went  jis  like 
a  swarm  of  bees  dun  bin  at  'em." 

"  That  was  outrageous,"  I  cried  in 
dignantly.  "  Why  did  n't  you  send  for 
the  constable  ? " 

"  I  'm  cumin'  ter   dat,  Miss  Mary. 
Well,  dey  wuz  dat  contrarifyin'  an'  dat 
[  165  ] 


4HBAYOU    TRISTE  H 

'sultin'  dat  Ma'  Jane  an'  wealls  frens 
'eluded  ter  git  out  an'  leve  dem  var 
mints  ter  ac  ez  dey  choosed,  but  jes  ez 
we  wuz  slippin'  out,  Jeems  Andrews  hed 
de  insurance  ter  'pose  a  toas'  ter  de  bride, 
an'  Simon  wuz  dat  suited  he  let  out 
wid  he  right  arm  an'  knockt  him  flat 
on  he  back." 

"  Good  !  "  I  said  warmly. 

"  No  'm,  bad  !  "  replied  old  Marthy, 
"  kase  jes  at  dat  minnit  de  constubble, 
tracted  by  de  yellin',  cum  a-runnin' 
an'  'rested  de  whole  lot,  my  ole  man 
same  ez  de  oders. 

"  We  tried  ter  splain,  but  twarnt  no 
good,  an'  dey  done  tuk  him  ter  jail,  an' 
dar  he  's  bleeged  ter  stay  twell  we  kin 
git  de  money  ter  bail  him  out.  Now 
you  knows,  Miss  Mary,  dat  wuz  hard 
on  us  ter  hev  so  much  trubble  fur 
nothin',  an'  Ma'  Jane 's  so  shame'  she 
don'  do  nothin'  but  cry." 

I  had  long  since  guessed  that  old 
Marthy 's  visit  was  not  due  solely  to  my 
personal  attractions,  but  in  this  instance 
[166] 


C;MA'  JANE'S 

I  felt  such  genuine  sympathy  for  the 
afflicted  family,  whose  only  crime  was 
a  desire  to  be  "  'sleet,"  that  I  was  more 
than  willing  to  help  them. 

I  was  about  to  ask  the  amount 
necessary  to  restore  Simon  to  his 
family,  when  Fred  rode  up,  and,  upon 
learning  the  situation,  volunteered  to 
go  over  at  once  and  straighten  matters 
out. 

Marthy  departed  with  voluble  pro 
testations  of  gratitude  and  affection, 
but  of  course  I  knew  I  would  not  see 
her  again  until  the  Gage  family  were 
once  more  in  difficulties. 

A  day  or  two  later,  as  I  looked  out 
of  the  library  window  I  saw  a  wagon 
loaded  with  household  belongings  (the 
red  tester  shining  in  the  sun)  moving 
slowly  down  the  big  road  to  the 
"  Quarters.  " 

"  Who  is  that  moving  on  the 
place?"  I  asked  Fred. 

"  Old  Simon's  crowd,"  he  laughed. 
"  Their  brief  experience  of  town  life 
[167] 


has  more  than  satisfied  them,  and,  like 
many  other  seekers  after  metropolitan 
pleasures,  they  have  decided  that  after 
all  the  country  is  not  to  be  despised. 
Hereafter  they  will  content  themselves 
with  such  humdrum  pursuits  as  South- 
meade  can  afford  them." 

That  night,  when  I  was  giving  out 
breakfast,  Priscilla  remarked  to  me, 
apropos  of  the  prodigals'  return : 

"  Hit 's  a  good  thing  ter  know  when 
youse  well  off,  ain'  hit,  Miss  Mary  ? " 


[168] 


XII 

THE  SACRIFICE   OF  ELIJAH 

THE  Donald  plantation  adjoined 
ours,  and  as  Charlie  and  I  had 
been  friends  since  our  mud-pie 
days,  there  was  nothing  unusual  in  my 
escorting  him  out  to  look  at  Elijah. 

"  You  must  say  something  very  nice 
about  him,"  I  said,  as  we  crossed  the 
yard,  Charlie's  enthusiasm  not  being 
his  strong  point. 

In  this  instance,  however,  he  proved 
satisfactory,  saying  almost  as  much  as 
even  I  could  wish. 

"But  why  call  him  Elijah?"  he 
asked. 

"  Because  that 's  his  name,"  I  replied. 
A  silence   fell,  punctuated   by  the 
grunts  of  the  small  black  and  white 
pig  beside  whose  pen  we  stood. 
[169] 


"  I  fail  to  seethe  connection, "pursued 
my  visitor.  "  Elijah  was  a  prophet." 

"  And  I  trust  this  Elijah  will  prove 
a  profit  to  me,"  I  said  flippantly. 

The  glance  Charlie  sent  me  was  half 
scorn  and  half  compassion.  "  And 
was  that  the  reason  —  "  he  began. 

"  No,  no  !  "  I  cried,  ashamed  of  my 
wretched  attempt  at  a  pun.  "  He  's 
named  after  old  Uncle  'Lijah  Byrum, 
who  gave  him  to  me." 

"  Upon  what  occasion  ?  " 

"  I  begged  Fred  to  bail  him  out  of 
jail  Saturday,  and  the  next  day  he 
appeared  with  his  namesake." 

"  Bread  cast  upon  the  waters." 

"  Peculiar-looking  bread,"  I  observed. 

"  Well,  now  he  's  here,  what  do  you 
mean  to  do  with  him  ?  " 

"  Keep  him,  of  course." 

"  You  'd  better  send  him  back  to  the 
'Quarters.'" 

"  And  lose  him  among  all  those  plan 
tation  pigs  ?  No,  thank  you." 

"  I  Ve  heard  you  discourse  for  hours 
[170] 


€1  THE  SACRIFICE  or   ELIJAH  €t 

upon  the  commonness  of  keeping  pigs 
around  a  yard." 

"  I  was  referring  to  other  people's," 
I  answered  shamelessly ;  "  but  anyhow, 
this  is  different.  Elijah  will  stay  in 
his  pen  ;  and,  way  off  here,  where  's  the 
harm  ? " 

"  There 's  the  principle  of  the  thing." 

«  Oh,  bother ! " 

"  He  will  be  stolen." 

"  Hardly." 

"  And  he  11  get  out  and  root  up  your 
rose-bushes  and  Uncle  Ephr 'urn's  vege 
tables,  and  he  will  feast  upon  your 
young  chickens,  and  altogether  carry 
death  and  devastation  in  his  path." 

"  What  a  pessimist  you  are,"  I  re 
marked,  leading  the  way  to  the  garden. 
"  Now  I  predict  very  different  things 
for  him.  He  will  be  fed  on  butter 
milk  and  sweet  potatoes.  He  will  wax 
strong  and  portly,  and  the  fame  of  him 
will  go  the  country  round,  until  all  the 
butchers  in  the  parish  will  crave  on 
bended  knees  the  privilege  of  owning 
[171] 


€£  B  A  Y  O  U     T  R  I  S  T  E  €£ 

him.  Then  I  shall  sell  him,  and  my 
purse  will  grow  so  heavy  that  I  shall 
stand  in  great  danger  of  being  married 
for  my  fortune." 

Charlie  laughed.  "  O  golden  dream ! " 
he  cried,  opening  the  garden  gate. 
"And  what  will  you  do  with  the 
money,  even  granting  that  you  make 
any  ?  Squander  it  on  a  bonnet  ?  " 

"A  bonnet,  in  this  benighted  neigh 
borhood  !  " 

"  We  may  be  benighted,"  said  Char 
lie,  "  but  we  don't  go  bareheaded." 

"  You  don't  wear  fifteen-dollar  hats," 
I  answered. 

By  now  we  had  reached  the  grass 
plot  in  the  centre  of  the  garden  encir 
cled  by  slim  mimosas,  with  the  great 
sweet-olive  tree  in  the  middle. 

Uncle  Ephr'um  was  at  work  in  the 
soft  spring  sunshine,  spading  rose 
bushes. 

Uncle  Ephr'um  and   I,  during  our 
long  acquaintance  (dating  back  to  my 
babyhood),  had  had  many  fierce  differ- 
[172] 


C  THE  SACRIFICE  or   ELIJAH  4H 

ences  of  opinion  ;  sometimes  the  vic 
tory  was  mine,  again  he  came  off  with 
banners  flying,  but  there  was  one  sub 
ject  upon  which  we  perfectly  agreed, 
and  that  was  the  garden. 

My  fancy  for  untrained  vines  and 
climbing  roses ;  for  old-fashioned, 
sweet-scented  plants  and  flowering 
shrubs  that  my  grandmother  had 
loved  before  me  ;  for  nature  uncon- 
fined  —  permitted  to  follow  her  own 
glad  will  —  met  with  his  delighted 
approval. 

In  consequence  the  acre  of  ground 
allotted  to  us  by  long  custom  was  a 
riot  of  sweetness  and  color. 

He  was  never  too  busy  to  help  me 
with  my  flowers,  and  would  drop  any 
other  duty  to  transplant  a  rose  or  set 
out  violets  ;  to  prune  the  branches  of 
encroaching  trees  or  discuss  with  me 
the  advisability  of  thinning  out  the 
cannas  or  leaving  them  to  luxuriate 
unmolested. 

We  would  go  into  mutual  raptures 
[173] 


over  the  progress  of  our  rose  cuttings, 
and  one  bright  spring  morning  I  re 
member  being  awakened  by  a  knock 
at  my  window,  to  find  Uncle  Ephr'um 
standing  outside  with  the  news  that 
the  first  syringa  bud  had  opened  ! 

To-day  he  met  me  with  pleasant 
tidings. 

"Miss  Mary,  chile,"  he  said,  after 
greeting  Charlie,  "  dat  Lamarque  rose 
of  yo'  granma's  done  put  out  a  shoot." 

"  O,  Uncle  Ephr'um  !  "  I  cried,  "  and 
we  thought  it  was  dead." 

"  You  thought  so,"  he  corrected.  "  I 
lowed  ez  dere  wuz  life  in  dat  ole  root 
fur  years  ter  cum  !  " 

"So  you  did,"  I  agreed.  "  I  was  the 
unbeliever." 

"Lor',  Mass'  Charlie,"  he  went  on, 
stooping  to  scrape  the  earth  from  his 
spade,  "  you  sho'  is  lookin'  well." 

Now,  as  Charlie  was  just  recovering 
from  a  severe  attack  of  the  grippe, 
this  was  prophesying  smooth  things 
indeed. 

[174] 


€t  THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ELIJAH  H 

My  companion  laughed  and  slipped 
his  hand  into  his  pocket.  "  That 's 
certainly  worth  a  quarter,"  he  said, 
handing  over  the  expected  response. 

"  Sit   here,"  I  said,  motioning  him 

towards  a  bench.     "  Were  there  ever  " 

-  gazing    dreamily  upward  —  "  skies 

bluer  than   those  we  have  at   South- 

meade  ? " 

"  From  pigs  to  poesy !  "  he  mur 
mured  admiringly.  "  The  versatility 
of  the  feminine  mind  is  past  con 
ception." 

"  Do  you  know,"  I  went  on  unheed 
ing,  "that  in  that  crepe-myrtle  tree 
yonder  a  mocking-bird  has  built  her 
nest  for  three  seasons  ?  See  —  there 
she  goes  now  with  a  worm  as  big  as 
a  match." 

"  Nasty  things,  worms,"  said  Charlie. 

"  Miss  Mary,"  broke  in  Uncle 
Ephr'um,  "  I  wuz  perusin'  'roun'  in 
de  vegitubble  gyardeen  dis  mornin'  an' 
I  cum  right  up  on  a  passel  of  dem 
yearlin'  nigger  boys  from  de  '  Quar- 
[175] 


C;  BAYOU    TR 

ters,'  an'  when  I  tole  'em  ter  leave  dey 
jes  laffed  at  me  mos'  outdacious  like ; 
so  I  ain'  sayin'  nothin'  but  I  went  in 
side  an'  got  Mr.  Fred's  big  pistol ;  den 
I  cum  back  an'  s'  I,  '  Now  ef  you 
don'  git  some  partiality  on  yo'selfs  an' 
git  out  you  sho'll  be  sorry  ; '  an',  chile, 
you  ot  ter  Ve  seen  'em  clippin' !  " 

"  Have  you  got  any  partiality  on 
yourself,  Mary  ? "  asked  Charlie. 

"  Uncle  Ephr'um's  vocabulary  is 
peculiarly  his  own,"  I  replied.  "  By 
the  way,  did  you  know  he  was  in  great 
trouble  ?  His  son  Shadrack  has  gone 
to  be  a  soldier." 

"Yessir"  (from  Uncle  Ephr'um), 
"listed  ter  fight  dem  no  count 
Spaniels." 

"  Oh,  I  expect  he  '11  come  back  !  " 
said  Charlie,  with  as  much  gravity  as 
he  could  assume. 

"  I  hopes  so,  Mass'  Charlie,  I  sholy 

hopes  so  ;  kase  I  'm  gittin'  too  ole  an' 

too  poly  ter  tek  keer  of  dat  wife  an' 

dem  seven   chillun   of  his'n.     Yessir, 

[176] 


€t  THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ELIJAH  €t 

seven  head  of  chillun  an'  de  oldes'  ain' 
much  mo'n  a  baby." 

"  Family  affection  is  a  beautiful 
thing,"  said  Charlie. 

"Uncle  Ephr'um's  bark  is  worse 
than  his  bite,"  I  responded. 

The  next  moment,  however,  I  re 
pented  my  ill-timed  defence,  for  Uncle 
Ephr'um,  noting  the  lowered  tones 
and  confidential  manner,  thought  him 
self  in  the  neighborhood  of  "an  af 
fair"  (not  having  been  told  of  my 
engagement  yet),  and  with  that  love 
of  a  romance  which  is  inborn  in 
the  Southern  negro  directed  a  glance 
of  understanding  and  approval  tow 
ards  us. 

"  Mass'  Charlie,"  he  said,  leaning  on 
his  spade  and  surveying  us  with  great 
interest,  "  ain'  you  powerful  lonely  up 
in  dat  big  house  of  yourn  ? " 

"  That  I  am,"  replied  Charlie,  with  a 
wicked  delight  in  the  situation. 

"Den  you  ot  ter  marry,"  was  the 
reply.  "  You  ain'  got  no  bizness  ter  be 


wastin'    yo'    time  in   singularity   like 
youse  bin  doin*  all  dese  years." 

"The  singularity  is,"  said  Charlie, 
"  that  I  can't  get  anybody  to  have  me, 
that  is,  anybody  I  'd  like  to  have." 

"  Fur  de  lan's  sake,"  cried  Uncle 
Ephr'um,  "  how  you  do  run  on.  You 
knows  enny  right-thinkin'  gal  ud  marry 
you,  wid  dat  big  house  of  yourn  an' 
all  dat  money  (for  there  is  a  rooted 
impression  among  the  old  servants 
which  no  outward  proofs  can  eradicate 
that  we  are  still  wealthy).  Looks  ain' 
everything,  Mass'  Charlie,"  he  pursued. 
"  Now  I  lows  ef  you  wuz  ter  ask  —  ' 

"  There 's  a  carriage  coming  in  at 
the  front  gate,"  I  cried.  "  Can  you 
make  out  whose  it  is  ? " 

Charlie  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

"If  it's  the  Brunes,"  I  went  on, 
"  I  'm  not  going  in.  I  really  could  n't 
stand  two  hours  of  mortal  dulness." 

"  Let 's  take   to  the  woods,"  cried 
my  visitor,  who  had  often  fled  with  me 
to  avoid  unwelcome  callers. 
[178] 


41  THE  SACRIFICE  or   ELIJAH  €t 

"  No,  no,"  I  answered,  "  it 's  dear  old 
Colonel  Lossing.  You  unscrupulous 
boy,  you  knew  it  was  he.  I  wouldn't 
run  from  him  for  anything  ! "  And  I 
started  towards  the  house  while  he  went 
round  to  the  stables  for  his  horse. 

As  I  reached  the  steps,  Colonel 
Lossing's  high  "jumper  "  and  absurdly 
small  Creole  mare  had  just  drawn  up 
before  them.  As  usual,  he  was  accom 
panied  by  a  dissipated-looking  little 
yellow  dog,  to  whom  Flip  gave  instant 
battle. 

It  was  amidst  a  chorus  of  snarls  and 
barks  that  the  Colonel  alighted  and 
bent  over  my  hand  with  the  courtly 
grace  of  a  forgotten  day. 

He  was  a  handsome  old  man,  with 
clear,  kindly  blue  eyes,  and  a  serene 
expression  that  to  those  who  knew  his 
history  was  incomprehensible. 

His  hat  was  a  relic,  his  clothes 
threadbare,  yet  it  would  have  taken  a 
dull  intellect  to  believe  him  anything 
but  a  gentleman. 

[179] 


4HBAYOU    TRISTE«H 

To  Joe,  who  came  around  the  house, 
he  confided  the  dusty  "jumper "  and 
dingy  little  mare,  with  instructions  for 
their  care  as  minute  as  those  he  would 
have  given  once  about  the  matchless 
thoroughbreds  of  other  days. 

Fred  came  out  to  welcome  him,  and 
he  was  soon  seated  in  the  easiest 
rocker,  with  a  glass  of  iced  lemonade 
and  a  plate  of  Priscilla's  best  cakes 
at  his  elbow. 

"  Dear,  dear,"  he  said,  looking  at  me 
with  the  sweetest,  most  grateful  smile, 
"  you  put  yourself  out  entirely  too 
much  for  an  old  fellow  like  me. 
You  '11  spoil  me,  Mary.  I  'm  not  used 
to  such  luxury." 

Not  used  !  I  wondered  if  Fred's 
mind  harked  back  as  rapidly  as  mine 
did  to  the  stories  told  us  by  Mammy 
Margaret  of  the  wonderful  doings  at 
"  Woodleigh,"  in  the  prosperous  days 
before  the  war. 

"  It  is  a  pleasure,  Colonel,"  I  said,  so 
earnestly  that  the  commonplace  lost 
[180] 


H  THE  SACRIFICE  OF   ELIJAH  €t 

its  insincerity,  "  and  you  give  us  the 
opportunity  too  rarely." 

"  Well,  my  child,"  he  replied,  "  I  'm 
right  busy  nowadays,  and  it 's  only 
now  and  then  I  can  get  off.  How 
like  your  mother  you  are,  Mary,  the 
same  brow  and  eyes !  "  and  he  fell 
into  a  revery,  from  which  Fred  and  I 
did  not  attempt  to  arouse  him. 

We  too  were  lost  in  thought  of 
the  brave,  generous,  old  man,  whose 
misfortunes,  brought  about  by  the 
treachery  of  trusted  friends,  had  never 
embittered  him ;  who  had  seen  home 
and  fortune  go,  —  the  great  plantation, 
the  savings  of  a  lifetime,  everything 
save  a  tiny  cabin  that  had  once  been 
his  gift  to  a  slave ;  who  now,  in 
his  old  age,  kept  the  books  of  a  coun 
try  store  rather  than  be  (as  he  ex 
pressed  it)  a  burden  to  his  friends ; 
who  never  murmured  against  fortune 
nor  railed  against  fate ;  and  who  by 
his  cheerfulness  and  patience  was  an 
example  to  all  who  knew  him. 
[  181  ] 


€];BAYOU    TRISTEH 

Through  every  reverse  he  had  kept 
his  buoyant  spirit  and  unshaken  confi 
dence  in  the  goodness  of  human  nature, 
though  how  he  had  managed  to  do  so 
was  quite  past  my  comprehension  ;  but 
that  he  had  done  so  was  doubtless  the 
secret  of  his  own  happiness  and  the 
love  of  his  friends. 

"  Forgive  me,  Mary,"  he  said  sud 
denly,  "  but  you  are  yourself^  respon 
sible  for  my  absent-mindedness.  You 
should  not  suggest  '  the  days  that  are 


no  more.' 


Then  he  fell  to  chatting  with  my 
brother,  while  I  sat  by  a  delighted  list 
ener.  His  familiarity  with  all  that  was 
going  on  in  the  world  outside  was  won 
derful,  and  it  was  evident  that  his  inter 
est  in  life  was  as  keen  as  it  had  always 
been. 

I  listened  in  admiration  and  amaze 
ment.  Accustomed  as  I  had  been  to 
the  hurrying  existence  of  a  town,  where 
people  grow  old  young,  and  where  a 
too  great  variety  of  interests  weakens 
[182] 


C£  THE  SACRIFICE  OF   ELIJAH  €t 

the  vitality  and  dulls  the  capacity  for 
enjoyment,  the  enthusiasm  of  this  old 
man,  who  had  drunk  deep  of  the  cup 
of  experience,  was  a  revelation. 

His  keen  pity  and  love  for  his  kind 
touched  me  as  nothing  has  ever  touched 
me  before  or  since.  I  had  been  reared 
in  a  different  school,  a  school  where 
life  made  people  cynical  instead  of 
compassionate,  and  where  the  gracious 
doctrine  of  turning  the  other  cheek  was 
never  practised  and  almost  unknown. 

"  You  say  you  have  him  with  you  ?  " 
asked  Fred's  surprised  voice,  recalling 
my  wandering  thoughts. 

"  Yes,  my  boy,  he  was  so  utterly 
out  at  elbows  ;  so  at  the  end  of  his 
tether,  one  might  say,  and  without  a 
friend  in  the  world  to  turn  to,  that  I 
really  did  n't  see  how  I  could  do  any 
thing  else." 

"  No  ?  Well,  I  think  others  might. 
George  Dabney  was  your  evil  genius, 
Colonel." 

"  Who  knows,  Fred,  he  might  have 
[183] 


been  led  astray  ?  It 's  very  difficult  to 
judge  of  people  unless  we  know  the 
motives  that  prompt  their  actions.  I 
don't  deny  that  he  disappointed  me ; 
but  his  worst  enemy  would  pity  him 
now,  and  God  knows  I  am  not  that ! " 

"  I  suppose  he  's  been  drinking  ?  " 
went  on  the  clear,  merciless  young 
voice. 

"He  says  he's  just  up  from  an  at 
tack  of  malaria,"  answered  the  Colonel. 

"  And  you  actually  have  him  living 
with  you  —  under  your  roof  -  -  eat 
ing  at  your  table  !  I  don't  see  how  he 
can  look  you  in  the  face,  much  less 
accept  your  charity." 

The  Colonel  was  silent ;  Fred's  indig 
nation  on  his  behalf  pained  rather  than 
pleased  him.  Then  he  said  in  a  tone  of 
apology : 

"  He 's  very  old,  my  boy." 

"Years  younger  than  you  are, 
Colonel." 

"  And    a   nervous    wreck    besides. 
Now  I  don't  feel  a  day  older  than  I 
[184] 


H  THE  SACRIFICE  OF   ELIJAH  H 

did  ten  years  ago.  I  sleep  like  a 
child,  and  my  appetite "  -  smiling 
towards  the  empty  cake  plate  —  "I 
need  not  tell  you  how  good  it  is  !  " 

Fred  fidgeted  in  his  chair ;  the  Col 
onel's  excessive  charity  fretted  him. 
After  a  moment  he  got  up  and  went 
inside. 

The  old  man  chatted  on,  about  his 
dog  and  his  little  mare  "  Ginger,"  and 
his  garden  filled  with  roses  from  cut 
tings  I  had  given  him ;  and  I  told  him 
about  the  books  I  had  been  reading, 
and  the  exceeding  stupidity  of  my 
young  turkeys,  and  last  but  by  no 
means  least  —  about  Elijah. 

His  respectful  interest  was  inspir 
ing  ;  I  contrasted  it  resentfully  with 
Charlie's  mocking  attitude. 

The  Colonel  felt  sure  that  Elijah 
would  bring  a  good  price.  "  And  may 
I  make  bold  to  ask  what  you  mean  to 
do  with  the  money  ? "  he  ventured. 

I  looked  over  my  shoulder.     Fred 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
[185] 


€t  BAYOU    TRISTE  «H 

"It  is  a  great  secret,"  I  said,  in  a 
half  whisper  ;  "  but  Fred  (you  know 
how  fond  he  is  of  birds)  has  been  per 
fectly  wild  for  a  set  of  Audubon's  for 
a  long  time,  and  I  want  to  make  the 
money  myself  and  get  them  for  him." 

The  Colonel's  face  fell. 

"  They  are  very  costly,  Mary." 

"  I  know  ;  but  I  thought  I  might 
get  a  broken  set,  or  some  that  were 
not  in  perfect  condition." 

His  eyes  lit  up. 

"My  dear  child,  I  have  it  —  the 
very  thing.  George  Dabney  was  tell 
ing  me,  just  the  other  day,  that  he 
had  a  broken  set  of  Audubon's  packed 
away  somewhere,  and  he  asked  me  if  I 
thought  I  could  dispose  of  them." 

"Why,  Colonel!"  I  exclaimed, 
"that  seems  almost  too  good  to  be 
true.  Would  it  bother  you  very  much 
to  make  all  the  arrangements  for  me  ? 
Then  later  on  in  the  fall,  when  I  have 
sold  Elijah,  I  will  send  you  the  money 
and  you  can  return  the  books." 
[186] 


€;  THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ELIJAH  <H 

"I'll  see  to  it,"  he  cried;  "it's 
the  very  thing  !  " 

"Of  course,"  I  ventured,  "if  he 
should  have  a  better  offer  in  the 
meantime  - 

"  Not  likely,"  he  laughed.  "  After 
the  poor  cane  crop  last  year  there's 
not  much  ready  money  lying  round." 

"  And  not  everybody  has  an  Elijah," 
I  cried  gaily. 

Then  Fred  returned  to  say  that 
dinner  was  ready,  and  the  subject  was 
dropped  ;  but  the  Colonel  did  not  for 
get  it  and  told  me  the  next  time  he 
called  that  Dabney  had  said  I  might 
have  the  books  for  twenty  dollars, 
owing  to  their  incomplete  condition. 

"  Is  n't  that  very  cheap  ? "  I  re 
marked  doubtfully. 

"  Of  course  it  is ;  but  they  are 
slightly  damaged,  and  Dabney  would  n't 
take  advantage  of  you  ;  he's  a  good 
fellow  in  spite  of  his  faults.  People 
say  he  ruined  me,  and  perhaps  he  did, 
but  we  all  make  mistakes,  and  he's 
[187] 


HBAYOU     Tu 

as  sorry  as  any  one  can  be  for  my 
misfortunes.  It  would  do  you  good 
to  hear  him  talk,  Mary,  it  really 
would." 

But  sad  to  relate,  in  spite  of  the 
Colonel's  enthusiasm,  my  heart  did 
not  warm  towards  the  mistaken  but 
repentent  Mr.  Dabney,  Fred's  con 
temptuous  expressions  concerning  him 
having  more  weight  with  me  than  all 
the  Colonel's  eulogies.  Which  proves 
that  I  was  quite  human  in  my  prone- 
ness  to  believe  the  worst  rather  than 
the  best  of  people. 

The  summer  drifted  by,  a  glorious, 
fragrant  summer,  filled  to  the  brim 
with  pleasant  happenings. 

Elijah,  as  I  had  predicted,  waxed 
vigorous  and  corpulent.  I  regret  to 
say,  however,  that  he  was  not  popular 
with  the  kitchen  authorities,  for  Uncle 
Ephr'um  looked  with  an  envious  eye 
upon  the  buckets  of  buttermilk  carried 
to  his  pen  daily ;  while  Priscilla's  in- 
[188] 


€£  THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ELIJAH  €L 

dignation  over  the  wasteful  amount  of 
sweet  potatoes  consumed  by  him  found 
vent  in  low  murmurs  that  I  thought 
it  expedient  to  ignore. 

Charlie  mocked  and  Fred  laughed 
at  what  they  were  pleased  to  call  my 
"business  venture,"  but  I  kept  my 
own  counsel  and  asked  no  sympathy 
from  either  of  them. 

One  day,  towards  the  end  of  October, 
the  Colonel  arrived  to  say  that  he  was 
much  grieved  to  tell  me  that  his  friend 
Dabney  had  been  sent  for  suddenly 
and  needed  some  ready  money  at  once. 
He  would  be  obliged  to  sell  the  Au- 
dubons  to  some  one,  but  of  course 
desired  to  give  me  the  preference. 

I  was  plunged  into  despair. 

"  Could  he  wait  until  to-morrow  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"Certainly,"  said  the  Colonel. 
"  Mary,  my  dear  child,  I  wish  I  had 
the  money  to  advance  for  you  I " 

"  I  know  you  do,"  I  answered,  "  but 
wait  until  to-morrow,  and  I  will  send 
[189] 


€[  B  A  Y  o  u    T RI s T E  H 

it  by  Uncle  Ephr'um  and  he  can  bring 
me  back  the  books." 

The  Colonel  having  taken  his  de 
parture,  I  went  in  search  of  Fred,  de 
siring  him  to  arrange  with  the  butcher 
all  the  preliminaries  for  the  sacrifice  of 
Elijah. 

Priscilla  told  me,  with  what  I  im 
agined  a  grin  of  triumph,  that  Fred 
had  gone  to  "  Vieuxtemps  "  and  would 
not  be  back  until  night. 

"  Sumpin  de  matter  wid  de  mill," 
she  explained. 

My  heart  sank  ;  any  trouble  with 
the  machinery  during  the  sugar-mak 
ing  season  meant  complete  absorp 
tion  of  Fred  ;  I  could  look  for  no  help 
from  that  quarter. 

Charlie  I  refused  to  consider. 

Priscilla  told  me  she  was  "  plum 
crazy  wid  de  mizry  in  de  back,  an'  had 
a  sassiety  meetin'  besides." 

Uncle  Ephr'um,  while  not  actually 
refusing  to  go  for  the  butcher,  made 
so  many  objections  to  doing  so  that  I 
[190] 


41  THE  SACRIFICE  OF   ELIJAH  €£ 

flung  away  in  a  temper.  "  I  know 
what  it  is,"  I  cried  scornfully ;  "  you 
don't  want  me  to  sell  Elijah.  You  'd 
like  to  eat  him  yourselves,  you  and 
Priscilla.  Oh,  you  think  I  don't  see 
through  you,  but  I  do  !  And  mark 
my  words,"  darkly,  "if  I  do  have  to 
keep  him,  neither  you  nor  Priscilla  nor 
Joe  shall  ever  taste  a  bite  of  him." 

"What  I  bin  doin',  Miss  Mary?" 
asked  Joe's  hurt  voice  at  my  elbow. 

"  Find  the  butcher  for  me,"  I  said, 
"and  you  won't  be  sorry,  Joe,"  and 
I  moved  hurriedly  out  of  Uncle 
Ephr'um's  demoralizing  neighborhood. 

My  eloquence,  not  to  say  my  brib 
ery,  resulted  in  the  appearance  of  the 
butcher  an  hour  or  so  later. 

He  was  not  at  all  what  I  had  antici 
pated,  and  I  was  greatly  disconcerted 
by  his  prosperous  appearance.  I  felt 
that  it  would  be  quite  impossible  to 
argue  over  the  price  of  a  pig  with  such 
a  well-dressed  individual. 

However,  it  was  too  late  now  to  re- 
[191] 


treat,  so  accompanied  by  Uncle  Ephr'um 
(murmuring  under  his  breath  "  dat  hit 
warnt  fitten  bizness  fur  a  lady  nohow  ") 
I  escorted  Elijah's  future  owner  to  the 
pen. 

My  conscience  reproached  me  when 
two  greedy  little  eyes  twinkled  up  at 
me,  for  I  came  no  longer  as  a  generous 
provider  with  an  eye  to  future  benefit, 
but  as  a  ruthless  executioner  thirsting 
for  his  life's  blood. 

To  my  dismay,  Theophile  Dumon 
did  not  seem  impressed  by  Elijah's 
corpulency.  He  spoke  lightly  of  it 
and  poked  him  in  the  sides  with  a  de 
preciatory  finger. 

He  was  polite  but  amused  when  I 
mentioned  fifteen  dollars  as  the  price 
I  expected  to  receive,  and  he  men 
tioned  incidentally  that  Mr.  Harrell 
on  the  place  below  had  much  finer 
pigs  than  Elijah,  and  made  a  mo 
tion  as  if  to  remount  his  big  black 
horse. 

My  spirits  fell,  for  the  Audubon 
[192] 


€t  THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ELIJAH  4H 

books   seemed   to    be   slipping    away 
from  me. 

Then  Dumon  spoke,  as  one  who 
makes  a  great  concession  and  is  con 
scious  of  his  generosity. 

"  I  tell  you  what  1 11  do,"  he  said. 
"  Mr.  Fred,  he 's  a  good  fren'  of  mine  ; 
1 11  give  you  ten  dollars  down  for  the 
hog.  I  don'  reckon  1 11  make  anything 
on  him,  but  no  matter." 

I  longed  to  tell  him  that  I  had  never 
heard  of  him  as  a  philanthropist,  but 
dignity  forebade  this  pleasure,  so  mas 
tering  my  indignation  and  with  as 
great  an  air  of  condescension  as  I 
could  assume  I  signified  my  willing 
ness  to  accept  the  offer. 

Then  I  marched  away,  leaving  the 
rebellious  Uncle  Ephr'um  to  conclude 
the  ceremonies  incidental  to  Elijah's 
departure,  and  to  receive  his  blood 
money. 

Dumon  lost  no  time  in  carrying  off 
his    prize,   and   when    Fred   returned 
(several  hours  sooner  than  he  was  ex- 
is  [  193  ] 


€[BAYOU 

pected)  I  gave  him  a  graphic  account 
of  the  whole  transaction.  When  I 
mentioned  Elijah's  price  he  opened  his 
eyes. 

"  Why,  he  cheated  you  out  of  sight, 
Mary,"  he  said.  "  Elijah 's  worth  fifteen 
dollars  if  he  's  worth  ten  cents  ! " 

"  Oh,  I  know  that,"  I  said  meekly, 
"but  I  don't  know  a  thing  about 
bargaining.  Uncle  Ephr'um  said  <  hit 
warnt  fitten  bizness  fur  a  lady,'  and 
I  think  he  was  about  right." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  wait  until  I  got 
back?" 

"  I  had  to  have  the  money  at  once." 

"Why?" 

"That's  a  secret." 

"  Well,  I  sincerely  hope  your  next 
venture  will  turn  out  better  than  this 
one." 

His  words  sent  a  cold  shiver  of  ap 
prehension  through  me  ;  but  the  next 
morning  when  Uncle  Ephr'um  set  off 
in  the  little  spring  cart,  with  the  ten 
dollars  (added  to  ten  I  had  already) 
[194] 


€t  THE  SACRIFICE  or   ELIJAH  H 

pinned  securely  in  his  vest  pocket,  my 
spirits  again  rose. 

He  returned  late  that  night,  in  a 
pouring  rain  and  a  very  bad  temper. 
When  in  response  to  a  summons  I  went 
out  into  the  back  hall  I  found  him 
standing  by  a  rusty  box  with  the  water 
dripping  from  his  clothes. 

"  Go  into  the  kitchen  and  get  dry 
at  once,"  I  cried  at  sight  of  him. 
"You'll  take  your  death  of  cold." 

"  I  reckon  I  done  done  dat,"  was  the 
grim  reply.  "  May  I  never  see  sich 
roads  ez  you  sont  me  fru  dis  day,  Miss 
Mary.  Ise  tankful  ter  git  back  alive  ; 
an'  ez  fur  ole  Suley,  she  sho  is  bad 
off." 

"  Tell  Joe  to  rub  her  down,"  I  said, 
refusing  to  be  depressed  by  these 
calamities,  for  I  knew  Uncle  Ephr'um 
of  old. 

"De  Kunnel  he  sont  you  dis,"  he 
went  on,  taking  a  letter  from  the  lining 
of  his  hat.    "  De  oder  gemman  he  lef  on 
de  boat  jes  arfter  I  'rived." 
[195] 


4HBAYOU    TRISTEC; 

I  opened  the  Colonel's  note  and  read 
by  the  hall  light : 

MY  DEAR  MARY  : 

It  has  occurred  to  me  that  my  friend  Dab- 
ney  (in  his  careless  way)  may  have  exaggerated 
the  value  of  his  Audubon  books ;  in  other 
words,  may  have  thought  them  in  better  con 
dition  than  they  are.  They  have  been  packed 
for  some  time  and  may  have  met  with  some 
mishap. 

I  suggested  to  him  that  we  open  the  box 
and  examine  them  prior  to  sending  them  to 
you,  but  he  seemed  to  imagine  that  I  doubted 
his  good  faith  and  grew  so  nervous  over  the 
subject  that  I  did  not  pursue  it. 

But  I  desire  to  say  that  should  the  books 
prove  on  examination  to  be  greatly  defaced  or 
otherwise  injured  that  I  hold  myself  respon 
sible  for  your  loss  and  will  see  that  your 
money  is  refunded. 

My  friend  Dabney  is  in  great  trouble  at 
present,  a  near  relative  being  at  death's  door, 
and  he  has  just  left  to  go  to  him,  but  I  feel 
sure  he  would  ratify  what  I  say  if  he  were 
here. 

Remember  to  let  me  know  the  condition  of 
your  purchase. 

[196] 


CL  THE  SACRIFICE  OF   ELIJAH  4H, 

With  expressions  of  high  regard  for  your 
self  and  your  brother,  believe  me 

Your  obedient  servant  and  friend, 

BEVERLY   LOSSING. 
OCTOBER  28,  1898. 

I  looked  up. 

Fred  was  standing  by  me  staring 
from  the  dripping  Uncle  Ephr'um  to 
the  box  at  my  feet.  "What's  all 
this  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Open  it,"  I  said  faintly  (for  Joe 
had  brought  in  the  hatchet). 

Fred  knelt  down  and  began  to  pry 
off  the  box  top.  A  cloud  of  dust  flew 
into  our  faces  as  we  bent  over  it 
together. 

"  It 's  a  present  for  you  ! "  I  explained 
haltingly.  "  Audubon  books !  You 
said  you  wanted  them.  Colonel  Loss- 
ing's  friend,  Mr.  Dabney,  sold  them  to 
me." 

Fred  paused  in  his  work. 

"  Then  they  're  no  good,"  he  said. 

"  O,  Fred  !  "  I  cried  ;  then  a  moment 
later,  after  mastering  my  tears,  I  said  : 
[197] 


4HBAYOU    TR 

"The  Colonel  seemed  to  fear  that 
too,"  and  I  gave  my  brother  the  note. 

"  Do  you  read  between  the  lines  ? " 
he  asked. 

"No." 

"  He  tried  to  prevent  the  sale  and 
that  cheat  Dabney  would  n't  let  go." 

"  But  why  did  he  ever  let  him  have 
the  money  ? " 

Uncle  Ephr'um  here  put  in  a  word. 

"De  oder  gemman  met  me  at  de 
gate,"  he  said.  "  He  say  de  Kunnel 
wuz  seeck  in  bade  an'  I  wuz  ter  let  him 
have  de  money,  kase  he  's  bleeged  to 
leave  straight  off  on  de  leetle  boat." 

"  And  you  gave  it  to  him  ? " 

Uncle  Ephr'um  scratched  his  head. 

"  He  talked  reel  convincin'-like, 
Mass'  Fred,  an'  he  say  he  ma's  dyin'." 

Fred  laughed  in  spite  of  his  disgust. 

"  His  poor  old  mother 's  been  dead 
these  thirty  years,"  he  said.  "  Now 
clear  out,  both  of  you." 

Having  dismissed  the  two  curious 
onlookers,  Fred  proceeded  to  open  the 
[198] 


C;  THE   SACRIFICE  OF   ELIJAH  C; 

box,  while  I  sat  in  a  dejected  heap 
on  the  floor  beside  him.  When  the 
cover  was  finally  removed  (for  the 
nails  were  driven  deep)  our  worst  fears 
were  realized. 

I  could  not  well  have  been  more 
deceived.  Audubon  books  they  un 
doubtedly  had  been,  but  in  what  pre 
historic  age  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  say.  The  covers  were  in 
fairly  good  condition,  but  when  we 
opened  them  heaps  of  dust  and  tiny 
scraps  of  paper  were  all  we  found 
inside. 

Here  and  there  the  bill  of  a  bird, 
the  webbed  foot  of  a  duck,  the  out 
line  of  a  tiny  wing,  indicated  that 
Audubon's  marvels  had  fallen  victims 
to  that  terror  to  all  Louisiana  libraries 
-  the  silver  moth. 

When  the  last  book  had  been  lifted 
out  and  we  could  neither  hope  nor 
suffer  more,  I  am  not  ashamed  to  con 
fess  that  I  broke  down  and  sobbed  un 
restrainedly. 

[199] 


<H  B  A  Y  o  u    TmsTECt 

Fred  drew  his  arm  about  my  shaking 
shoulders. 

"  Don't  take  it  so  hard,"  he  said. 
"  I  'm  just  as  much  obliged  to  you,  and 
who  could  have  anticipated  this  ? " 

"  I  don't  see  how  he  could  do  it,"  I 
moaned.  "  He  must  have  known,  and  I 
had  looked  forward  so  to  your  delight." 

"  He  ought  to  be  horse-whipped  ! " 
he  cried. 

"  The  poor  old  Colonel,"  I  said,  "  it 
will  grieve  him  awfully  to  learn  this. 
Yet  how  am  I  to  keep  it  from  him  ? 
And  Charlie,"  piling  on  the  agony, 
"  he  '11  never  stop  laughing." 

"  He  won't  laugh  at  all ;  he  '11  be  as 
angry  as  I  am." 

I  looked  at  the  empty  box,  the 
heap  of  dingy  covers,  the  piles  of  dust 
and  scattered  bits  of  paper ;  and  the 
iron  entered  into  my  soul. 

"  And  it  was  for  this,"  1  said  bitterly, 
"  for  this  "  -  with  a  tragic  wave  of  the 
hand  —  "  that  I  sacrificed  Elijah  ! " 

[  200  ] 


XIII 

SIX   MONTHS   OF   MARRIAGE 

THE  hen-house  door  was  wide 
open,  and  Priscilla  and   Joe 
had  for  the  last  half-hour  been 
fruitlessly  endeavoring  to  persuade  the 
old  gray  turkey-hen  to  enter  it. 

Her  mincing  step  and  reflective 
manner,  as  she  would  hesitate  at  the 
door  and  then  pass  by,  were  irre 
sistibly  amusing  to  an  onlooker,  and 
correspondingly  aggravating  to  her 
would-be  captors. 

From  the  safe  vantage  ground  of 
the  back  steps  I  watched  proceedings, 
occasionally  throwing  in  words  of  ad 
vice  to  further  irritate  the  situation. 

"  Head  her  off,  Joe  ! "  I  called  excit 
edly.     "  Priscilla,  you  come  round  on 
the  other  side.     Good  gracious  !  how 
on  earth  could  you  let  her  pass  ?  " 
[  201  ] 


ftBAYOU 

Priscilla  turned  and  looked  at  me. 

"  Miss  Mary,"  she  said  with  infinite 
feeling,  "  s'posen  you  tries  to  tole  her 
in  yourself.  Ise  dead  beat  by  now, 
an'  I  lows  ef  you  knows  how  ter  ketch 
her,  you  ought  ter  come  an'  take  a 
han'." 

The  gage  was  thrown  down  and  I 
was  racking  my  brains  how  to  escape 
with  honor,  when  Charlotte  Wilson, 
who  was  Charlotte  Deals,  came  around 
the  corner  of  the  house. 

Her  appearance  was  a  signal  of 
deliverance. 

"  Priscilla,"  said  I,  rising  and  motion 
ing  Charlotte  to  follow,  "  I  know  Char 
lotte  has  only  a  few  minutes  to  spare, 
so  1 11  have  to  leave  you  and  Joe  to 
fight  it  out  with  old  Aunt  Sukey,"  for 
such  was  the  turkey-hen's  name,  due 
to  her  ludicrous  resemblance  to  one  of 
our  old  servants. 

Charlotte  grinned.     She  had  heard 
Priscilla's    challenge   and    appreciated 
the  humor  of  the  situation. 
[  202  ] 


€t  Six   MONTHS  OF  MARRIAGE  41 

"  I  kin  drop  in  anoder  time,  Miss 
Mary,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Come  into  the  garden,"  I  replied, 
ignoring  the  suggestion,  "  I  'm  tired  of 
the  steps  anyhow." 

It  was  a  perfect  October  day.  The 
sky  was  a  deep  blue,  the  grass  fresh 
and  green,  and  the  branches  vivid, 
despite  the  approach  of  winter. 

As  I  flung  myself  on  my  favorite 
bench,  the  delicious  fragrance  of  vio 
lets  and  sweet  olive  was  overpowering. 

Even  Charlotte,  who  was  not  poet 
ically  inclined,  felt  the  charm,  for  she 
remarked  as  she  seated  herself  (at  my 
request)  on  a  fallen  log,  "  Yo'  roses  sho 
do  fumigate  de  gardeen,  Miss  Mary." 

"  Yes,"  said  I  dreamily,  "  and  now, 
Charlotte,  tell  me  how  you  like  being 
married  ? " 

Charlotte  twisted  her  bonnet  string 
round  her  finger. 

"  Wese  bin  married  six  months,  Miss 
Mary,"  she  said,  "  an'  he  ain'  never  beat 
me  yit." 

[  203] 


C BAYOU    TRISTE€! 

An  indignant  "  I  should  think  not " 
was  on  my  lips,  but  a  swift  recollection 
of  circumstances  checked  me. 

What  volumes  did  not  that  pathetic 
speech  reveal !  How  meagre  must  her 
ideas  of  married  happiness  be,  that  she 
could  find  contentment  in  so  little  !  I 
thought  of  her  father,  old  Peter  Deals, 
sullen,  morose,  and  irritable,  and  real 
ized  that  from  him  she  doubtless  drew 
her  estimate  of  conjugal  conduct. 

"  Then  he  is  good  to  you  ? "  I  said 
tentatively. 

"  Yessum  ;  he  ain'  sose  ter  say  very 
free  wid  his  money,  but  I  teks  in  a 
leetle  washin'  every  week,  an'  so  we 
gits  erlong." 

"  I  saw  your  house,"  I  said,  "  Mr. 
Fred  and  I  passed  it  last  week."  For 
Lincoln,  scorning  a  plantation  cabin, 
had  rented  a  tiny  cottage  on  the  out 
skirts  of  the  village. 

"  Did  you,  Miss  Mary  ?  Hit 's  reel 
smart-lookin',  ain'  hit  ? " 

I  did  not  smile,  but  "  smart-lookin' " 
[  204  ] 


€[  Six   MONTHS  or  MARRIAGE  €£ 

was  certainly  exaggerated  praise  of  the 
little  low-roomed  building  Fred  had 
pointed  out  to  me  as  Charlotte's 
dwelling. 

"  The  vine  on  your  gallery  is  lovely,"  I 
said.  "  You  must  give  me  a  root  of  it." 

"Lor',  Miss  Mary,  do  you  really 
want  hit  ?  Why,  I  '11  fotch  you  over 
some  to-morrow." 

"  What  furniture  have  you  ?  "  I  went 
on,  for  I  saw  she  was  pining  to  be  "  led 
out." 

"  Not  so  much,  Miss  Mary.  My 
pa  guv  me  a  bed  an'  a  bureau  fur  a 
weddin'  presen',  but  I  lef  'em  at  he 
house." 

"  Left  them  ? "  I  repeated.  "  What 
a  curious  idea." 

Charlotte  shook  her  head. 

"  No  'm  ;  dey  's  mine,  you  see,  en'  ef 
Lincoln  an'  me  ever  falls  out,  I  '11  hev 
'em  all  right  at  my  pa's ;  but  ef  I 
fetches  'em  over  ter  us  house  Lincoln 
cud  say  dey  wuz  his'n  an'  tek  'em  fur 
heself." 

[205  ] 


The  confident  anticipation  of  trouble 
and  subsequent  deep  laid  schemes  in 
regard  to  the  bed  and  bureau  made 
me  open  my  eyes. 

"  But,  Charlotte,"  I  protested,  "  you 
oughtn't  to  feel  like  that;  when  peo 
ple  are  married  they  must  trust  each 
other." 

Charlotte  smiled. 

"  Dat  's  white  folks'  ways,  Miss  Mary, 
but  niggers  is  diffrunt.  You  kawnt 
count  on  a  nigger  ;  youse  bleeged  ter 
be  rady  fur  him.  I  knows  Ise  slow 
an'  ugly,  an'  Lincoln 's  one  of  dese 
hyar  high-steppin'  niggers  what  ain' 
get  no  better  sense  den  ter  think  deys 
ez  good  ez  ennybody,  so  he  might  git 
tired  of  me.  Den  he  'd  'gin  ter  treat 
me  bad  sose  ter  mek  me  quit  him." 

"  I  hope  that  will  never  happen,"  I 
said. 

"  Well,  Miss  Mary,  I  don'  reckon 

hit  will,"  she  responded  cheerfully.   "  I 

cooks  an'  I  washes  an'  I  darns  fur  him  ; 

I  keeps  him  cumfurtubble,  an'  I  ain' 

[206] 


4H,  Six   MONTHS  OF  MARRIAGE  €£ 

never  sputing  what  he  's  got  ter  say 
(kase  I  kin  hev  my  own  idees  jes  de 
same),  an'  I  lows  we  '11  git  erlong  ez 
well  ez  mos'  folks." 

"  Are  you  sorry  you  married  ?  "  I 
asked  gently. 

"Sorry?  Why  no,  ma'am.  You 
knows  how  hit  is,  Miss  Mary  ;  marryin' 
is  jes  like  everything  else.  You  kawnt 
tell  how  hit 's  gwine  ter  tun  out.  Youse 
bleeged  ter  tek  yo'  chances.  An' 
talkin'  'bout  dat,  I  heerd  tell  you  wuz 
gwine  ter  be,  married  fo' long." 

Somehow  or  other  I  did  not  think 
the  moment  a  happy  one  to  discuss 
my  own  matrimonial  arrangements. 

"You  can't  believe  all  you  hear, 
Charlotte,"  I  replied  vaguely. 

"  No  'm,  but  ef  hit's  true,  an'  I  reckon 
hit  is,  I  hopes  he 's  got  plenty  of  money 
an'  you  '11  be  happy  ever  arfter." 

"  I  hope  so,"  I  replied  with  sudden 
gloom. 

Charlotte  arose. 

"  Well,  Ise  got  ter  be  gwine,  Miss 
[207] 


Mary.  Don'  furgit  me  ef  you  happens 
ter  fine  enny  ole  dress  or  hat  what 
won't  do  you  no  mo'  good." 

"  I  won't,"  said  I.  "  By  the  way, 
there 's  a  pan  of  milk  in  the  dairy  you 
can  take  home  with  you  ;  ask  Priscilla 
for  it  as  you  go  by." 

So  Charlotte  went  away  and  left  me 
to  my  reflections,  —  reflections  not  al 
together  as  cheerful  as  they  might  have 
been. 

A  short  while  later,  when  Joe  came 
into  the  garden  with  the  water  can,  he 
handed  me  a  letter. 

"  Mass'  Fred  guv  hit  ter  me ;  he  say 
hit  cum  by  de  late  mail." 

At  sight  of  the  well-known  hand 
writing  my  spirits  rose. 

As  I  broke  the  seal  I  happened  to 
look  across  the  yard  and  saw  Lincoln's 
wife,  a  little,  thin,  weather-beaten  fig 
ure,  plodding  slowly  homewards. 

"  Poor  little  Charlotte,"  I  said  com 
passionately. 

[  208] 


XIV 

GOOD-BYE 

IT  was  the  tenth  of  November,  a 
glorious    afternoon   with   a   clear 
brightness  to  the  sun,  a  crispness 
to  the  atmosphere  that  set  the  blood 
tingling  in   the  veins.     I   paused   on 
my  way  to  the  garden  to  sit  upon  the 
steps  in  happy,  untroubled  idleness. 
To-morrow  was  my  wedding  day  ! 
A  little  while  and  the  old  life  would 
be  gone  like  a  dream.     I  looked  out 
at  the   shadow-haunted  yard   with   a 
sudden  realization  of  loss.     The  sight 
of  Joe  and  Priscilla's  Benjie  quarrel 
ling  beneath  the  pecan  trees,  and  of 
Priscilla   crossing  the  grass  with  her 
skirts    caught    high    about   her   hips, 
sights  quite  unemotional  in  themselves, 
brought  the   tears    to    my   eyes   and 
something  like    a  sob  to  my  throat. 
14  [  209  ] 


Yesterday  afternoon,  when  Kate  and 
Agnes  were  sleeping,  I  had  stolen 
down  to  our  family  graveyard  to  say 
a  good-bye  prayer  at  my  mother's 
grave,  and  to-day,  with  the  strange 
new  feeling  of  responsibility  and  lone 
liness  upon  me,  I  missed  her  as  I  had 
never  missed  her  before. 

Kate  came  laughing  down  the 
gallery. 

"  Something  old,  and  something  new, 
Something  borrowed,  and  something  blue," 

she  quoted.  "  Oh,  child  !  I  would  n't 
be  in  your  shoes  for  gold." 

"Fine  words,"  I  answered,  "with 
your  own  wedding  only  half  a  month 
away." 

"  There 's  yet  time,"  teased  Mrs. 
Ewing,  slipping  to  a  seat  beside  me. 
"  Why  don't  you  back  out  before  it 's 
too  late  ? " 

"  I  don't  want  to  back  out,"  I 
declared. 

"  Well,  after  all,  I  don't  blame  you  ; 
he 's  really  very  pleasant,  and  with  the 
[210] 


ft  GOOD-BYE  4H 

kindest  gray  eyes.     But  I  think  you 
might  have  married  a  home  man." 

"  '  Nobody  asked  me,  sir,  she  said.' ' 

"  Don't  notice  her,  Agnes  ;  she  wants 
you  to  deny  it,"  cried  Kate. 

"  Poor  Mr.  Donald  ! "  was  Agnes' 
reply. 

"Miss  Mary,"  said  Priscilla's  unc- 
tious  voice,  "  leetle  yaller  Susan  and 
Jeems  Vincent's  Sophy  'd  like  ter  see 
you." 

"  Very  well ! "  said  I.  "  Good  gra 
cious  !  if  there  's  one  thing  on  earth  I 
dread,  it 's  visits  from  old  servants. 
The  very  sight  of  them  drives  every 
idea  I  have  out  of  my  mind  ;  and  when 
I  Ve  asked  after  their  children,  and 
grandchildren,  and  cross-questioned 
them  about  their  chickens  and  gar 
dens,  I  Ve  reached  the  end  of  my 
tether.  Fortunately  somebody  dies 
now  and  then  and  gives  us  something 
to  talk  about." 

"  O  Mary,  how  can  you  ? "  cried 
Agnes. 

[211] 


€1  BAYOU 

"  Try  it  for  yourself,"  I  retorted ; 
"see  how  your  better  nature  shrivels 
up.  Come,  Kate,  help  me  out  like  a 
good  girl." 

"  Not  I,"  said  Kate. 

"  Well,  you,  Agnes  ?" 

"They  don't  want  to  see  me,"  she 
protested.  "  You  're  the  attraction  ; 
you  —  and  your  marriage  —  these  are 
wedding  visits  and  you  must  accept 
them  in  proper  form." 

"  There  's  one  comfort,"  I  said,  as  I 
was  gloomily  departing,  "Kate  will 
have  all  this  to  do  after  T  'm  gone." 

"  Don't  remind  me,"  she  called,  "  or 
I  might  break  off  my  engagement." 

Yellow  Susan  was  a  small,  bright- 
eyed  little  woman  who  had  been  my 
mother's  maid,  and  her  proprietary 
interest  in  me  and  my  affairs  was 
of  long  standing.  Between  her  and 
Mammy  existed  a  deadly  feud,  the 
latter  considering  her  affection  for  me 
highly  impertinent,  and  an  infringe 
ment  of  her  own  rights. 


4H  GOOD-BYE  €1 

Susan  questioned  me  closely  about 
Hugh  and  his  family,  and,  above  all, 
his  prospects,  and  was  much  chagrined 
when  I  betrayed  the  most  lamentable 
ignorance  of  his  finances. 

"  Do  hush,  Miss  Mary ! "  she  cried, 
"  you  sholy  ain'  marry  in'  poor  !  I 
heered  tell  he  was  rich,  an'  I  wuz  that 
proud." 

"  Money  is  n't  everything,"  I  re 
sponded. 

Aunt  Sophy  here  put  in  a  word  : 

"No  'm,  hit  ain'  everything,  dat  's  so  ; 
but  hit  ain'  nothing  ter  laff  at  neider." 

"  How's  Nathan  ?  "  I  asked,  with  a 
view  of  diverting  the  conversation. 

"  He 's  right  smart,  thank  you,  Miss 
Mary.  He 's  got  a  place  on  de  railroad 
as  car  porter." 

If  she  had  said  as  President  of  the 
United  States,  her  pride  could  not 
have  been  greater ;  and  after  con 
gratulating  her  warmly,  I  proceeded 
with  my  category. 

"  What 's  big  Jacob  doing  now  ? " 
[213] 


"Am'  doin'  nothin'  ceppen  drink 
heself  ter  death,"  was  the  mournful 
reply. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Sophy,  I  'm  very  sorry," 
I  said. 

"  No  mo'n  I  is,  Honey,  seem'  ez  I 
hez  his  nocount  wife  an'  chillun  on  my 
han's." 

Having  no  comfort  to  offer  under 
such  unfortunate  circumstances,  I 
adroitly  changed  the  subject. 

"And  what  have  you  been  doing 
with  yourself,  Aunt  Susan  ? " 

Her  companion  chuckled.  "What 
you  reckon  she  's  done  done  ?  " 

"  I  can't  imagine." 

"  Bin  an'  gone  an'  got  married  agin  1 " 

"  And  you  never  sent  me  word  1 "  I 
exclaimed. 

"  I  wuz  ashamed,  Honey.  I  wuz 
feered  you'd  laff  at  me.  I  knowed 
you  an'  Mass'  Fred  'd  think  I  wuz  too 
ole  an'  settled-like  fur  sech  gwineson, 
so  I  lowed  I  'd  lay  low  ontwell  I  'd  git 
kiner  used  ter  hit." 

[214] 


40;  GOOD-BYE  4H 

"  Whom  did  you  marry  ?  "  I  asked, 
wondering  whether  the  bridegroom 
had  been  entirely  disinterested,  or  in 
fluenced  somewhat  by  her  savings  and 
her  comfortable  cabin  in  the  village. 

"  Ole  Peter  Brown." 

Now  Peter  was  the  best  fiddler  in 
the  parish,  and  a  great  favorite  with 
all  of  us,  so  I  smiled  my  approval. 

"  You  '11  never  want  for  music,  will 
you  ? "  I  laughed. 

"  Now,  Honey,"  said  Susan  reproach 
fully,  "  you  disremembers  dat  sence  Ise 
got  religion,  I  don'  hev  nothin'  ter  do 
wid  sech  sinful  percedins.  Why,  me 
an'  Peter  bunned  his  fiddle  spang  up 
in  de  kitchen  hyarth  'fore  I  'd  'gree  to 
marry  him." 

"  Burned  his  violin !  Oh,  how  could 
you  ? " 

"  Hit  wuz  Satan's  tool,  chile,  de  call 
of  de  ungodly  ter  pore  weak  sinners." 

"  Well,  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  one  of  them," 
I  said,  "  for  I  dearly  loved  his  music. 
Now  I  know  you  have  something  else 
[215] 


to  do,  so  I  won't  keep  you."  (This 
was  my  favorite  formula  when  my 
guests  showed  no  symptoms  of  de 
parture.)  "  But  come  into  the  pantry 
first  and  drink  my  health  in  black 
berry  cordial." 

"  Here  's  to  you  an'  todes  you, 
Ef  I  'd  never  seed  you  I  'd  never  knowedyou  ! " 

said  Susan,  wiping  out  her  glass  with 
her  apron. 

"  Red  fur  de  blackbird,  blue  fur  de  wren, 
Jye  ter  de  pretty  gals  an'  nothin'  fur  de  men," 

chanted  Aunt  Sophy,  not  to  be  out 
done.  "Tell  Mass'  Fred  howdy  fur 
us,  Miss  Mary,  an'  don'  furgit  ter  save 
us  some  of  de  good  things  termorrer." 
"  Oh,  you  must  come  to  my  wed 
ding,"  I  cried,  "  I  shall  expect  you. 
Well,  that 's  over,"  darting  into  Kate's 
room  and  flinging  myself  on  the  bed. 
"  They  're  so  good-hearted,  and  so 
affectionate,  and  so  —  unspeakably 
dull." 

[216] 


<H  GOOD-BYE  <l 

Kate  was  making  an  evergreen  gar 
land,  a  thing  of  beauty  that  grew  like 
magic  under  her  deft  fingers. 

"  This  is  to  go  in  the  hall,"  she  said, 
ignoring  me  and  my  woes,  "  and  Agnes 
has  made  a  lovely  one  for  the  folding- 
doors.  Joe  and  Uncle  Ephr'um  are 
hard  at  work  on  the  mantel-pieces,  and 
Mammy's  generally  ordering  things 
round.  I  thought  you  'd  like  to  know 
how  we  were  progressing." 

"  I  want  to  be  married  in  the 
front  drawing-room  on  the  very  spot 
where  my  mother  stood  before  me," 
I  said. 

"  Very  well,  come  and  show  me  the 
place." 

The  windows  were  wide  open, 
November  though  it  was,  and  through 
the  filmy  curtains  the  late  sun  poured 
like  a  golden  flood,  making  one  forget 
the  faded  furniture  and  worn  carpets. 
Mammy  was  dusting  the  portraits  with 
reverent  hands,  and  Priscilla,  on  her 
knees  before  the  hearth,  was  dispensing 
[217] 


TRISTE<H 

wisdom  to  Joe  and  Uncle   Ephr'um> 
who  received  it  scornfully. 

Agnes,  having  hung  her  garland,  was 
studying  the  effect  from  a  distant 
chair.  I  went  over  to  her  with  shin 
ing  eyes. 

"  What  should  I  have  done  without 
you  two,"  I  asked,  "  and  how  can  I  ever 
repay  you  ?  " 

"  By  looking  your  prettiest  to-mor 
row  and  making  Mr.  Delancey  think 
well  of  all  Southern  women." 

"  Keep  that  uplifted  look  you  have 
now,"  said  Kate,  "  that  expression  of 
etherealized  happiness  !  We  don't  see 
it  very  often  nowadays." 

"  Miss  Mary,"  warned  Mammy  from 
the  window,  "  I  see  Mis'  Brune's  car 
riage  at  de  gate." 

"  Oh,  come ! "  I  cried  wildly. 
"  Agnes  !  Kate  !  -  -  both  of  you. 
Mammy,"  over  my  shoulder,  "  say 
we  Ve  gone  to  the  sugar-house  —  the 
fields  —  anywhere.  Tell  them  how 
sorry  we  are  - 

[218] 


H  GOOD-BYEH 

I  was  already  half-way  down  the 
back  steps,  having  snatched  a  sunbon- 
net  as  I  tore  through  the  hall. 

"  Lovely  conduct  for  a  bride-to-be," 
gasped  Kate  at  my  side. 

"  You  don't  know  the  Brunes,"  I 
answered.  "  Oh,  there 's  the  very 
thing,"  catching  sight  of  old  Suley  in 
Uncle  Ephr'um's  little  bob-tailed  cart. 
"  Jump  in,  Agnes ;  sit  down,  Kate. 
Get  up,  Suley,  get  up  !  "  -  and  away 
we  rattled,  down  the  big  road,  across 
the  fields  to  the  "  Quarters." 

When  danger  lay  far  behind  us  I 
allowed  Suley  to  fall  into  a  walk,  and 
turned  around  with  a  triumphant  smile. 

"  Presence  of  mind  is  an  excellent 
thing,"  I  observed  conceitedly. 

"  It  would  serve  you  right  if  Mr. 
Delancey  came  while  you  were  gone," 
said  Agnes. 

"  He 's  not  coming  till  '  tea,'  I 
said.  "  I  told  him  not  to  come  ;  that 
we  had  to  get  the  house  ready." 

"  This  looks  like  it,"  sarcastically. 
[219] 


TRISTEC; 

"  All  is  fair  in  love  and  the  Brunes," 
I  quoted.  "  How  delicious  ! "  as  the 
wind  brought  us  the  odor  of  fried  bacon 
from  the  "  Quarters'  "  kitchens.  "  I  Ve 
half  a  mind  to  stop  and  get  supper  at 
Modeste's." 

"  She  is  quite  mad,"  observed  Agnes. 
"  Better  humor  her,  Kate." 

The  "  Quarters  "  wore  its  accustomed 
look  of  languid  activity  ;  negro  chil 
dren  played  at  the  road's  edge,  dogs 
darted  wildly  about,  getting  in  every 
body's  way ;  here  a  goat  tied  with  a 
long  string  browsed  on  the  ditch 
bank ;  there  a  big-eyed  calf  stared  at 
us  through  the  fence  rails.  From 
every  chimney  floated  a  wavering  line 
of  gray  smoke  ;  supper  was  in  course 
of  preparation. 

As  we  neared  the  sugar-house,  the 
centre  of  interest  just  now,  a  tardy 
recollection  of  the  overseers  and  of 
Fred  decided  me  to  abandon  the  cart ; 
but  before  I  could  do  so  he  appeared 
round  the  corner  of  the  blacksmith's 
[220  ] 


C;  GOOD-BYE  41 

shop,  accompanied,  to  my  great  dis 
may,  by  Hugh. 

Agnes  and  Kate  greeted  them  cor 
dially,  but  I  scrambled  from  my  perch 
with  scarcely  a  word  of  welcome,  for 
when  one  has  posed  as  exceedingly 
dignified  it  is  awkward  to  be  found 
out. 

"  Why  did  you  get  down  ? "  asked 
Hugh,  as  we  were  strolling  to  the  cane 
shed.  "  You  looked  awfully  jolly  up 
there." 

"  Jolly  ! "  I  repeated  disgustedly. 
"  By  the  way,  I  thought  you  were  safe 
in  Vieuxtemps.  How  came  you  to  be 
out  here  ? " 

"Why,  Fred  asked  me  to  come 
over,  and  as  I  'd  never  seen  '  grinding,' 
I  was  glad  to  accept.  It 's  very  inter 
esting  all  through." 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  I  answered,  "  but 
I  never  understand  the  machinery,  and 
it  does  worry  Fred  so." 

We  had  reached  the  great  shed, 
with  its  heaps  of  cane  and  laugh- 
[221  ] 


TRISTE<It 

ing,  good-natured  workers.  Some  of 
them  were  children,  but  they  threw 
their  cane  on  the  carrier  with  as  much 
vim  and  energy  as  their  elders. 

The  foreman  of  the  gang,  and  an 
old  acquaintance  of  mine,  caught  sight 
of  us  and  came  hurrying  over  to  speak 
to  me. 

"  Wese  mity  sorry  ter  lose  you, 
Miss  Mary,"  he  said,  "  but  hit's  a  jye 
ter  know  youse  gwine  ter  be  tooken 
good  keer  of." 

I  looked  at  Hugh,  and  as  his  eyes 
met  mine,  the  steady  gray  eyes  I  loved, 
it  needed  no  verbal  assurance  to  know 
that  old  Roger's  confidence  was  war 
ranted. 

"  Give  us  a  song,  boys,"  called  Fred. 
"  Something  bright  and  lively  sound 
ing,  like  a  hornpipe.  Lead  them  off, 
Roger." 

And  the  next  moment  the  rafters 
echoed  to  the  rhythmical  nonsense  of 

"  Hop  light,  ladies,  de  cake 's  all  do1, 
Never  mine  de  wedder  ef  de  win"  don'  blow  !  " 
[  222  ] 


C;  GOOD-BYE  «H 

"  Mary,"  said  Hugh,  as  we  were 
strolling  slowly  homewards,  "  this  is 
such  a  pleasant,  care-free  existence 
that  I  'm  afraid  some  day  you  may 
regret  it.  My  heart  sinks  at  the 
thought  and  I  wonder  at  my  own 
selfishness ! " 

"  Care-free  ? "  I  echoed  indignantly ; 
"with  crevasses  and  tariffs  and  boun 
ties.  Who  ever  heard  of  such  a 
thing  ? " 

"  But  you  love  it  so,"  he  insisted 
jealously ;  "it  amounts  to  a  passion 
with  you." 

"  Yes,  I  do  love  it,  everything  about 
it ;  and  with  all  its  anxieties  there 's  no 
life  like  it  in  the  world,"  arid  my  glance 
wandered  wistfully  around.  "Dear, 
lovely,  unprofitable  old  place,  I  think 
I  was  born  loving  it,  and  I  have  been 
so  happy  here." 

"  And  to-morrow  you  say  good-bye 
to  it  forever." 

"  Forever ! "  I  echoed  dreamily. 
Then,  struck  by  his  silence,  I  turned 
[  223  ] 


to  look  at  him  curiously.  "  You  don't 
mind  my  liking  it  ?  You  would  n't 
have  it  otherwise,  would  you  ? " 

"  No,  no,  it 's  very  natural ;  but  tell 
me  you  are  willing  to  come,  —  that 
you  will  be  content.  You  are  every 
thing  in  the  world  to  me,  and  it  would 
make  me.  wretched  if  you  were  not 
happy." 

I  smiled  into  his  anxious  face. 

"  There  are  compensations,"  I  said. 
"  Oh,  you  foolish  Hugh,"  as  he  still 
looked  unconvinced,  "  have  I  not  told 
you  that  I  love  you  ? " 

About  an  hour  later,  when  I  was 
dressing  for  tea,  Priscilla  knocked  at 
my  door,  ostensibly  to  bring  me  a 
light,  but  in  reality  to  free  her  mind  of 
a  few  valedictory  thoughts. 

"  Miss  Mary,  chile,"  she  said,  coming 
over  to  where  I  sat  by  the  low  fire, 
"  I  sho  is  sorry  ter  lose  you.  Me  an' 
you  hez  got  on  fus-rate  tergedder." 

*'  I  'm  sorry  to  go,  Priscilla,"  I  re- 
[  224] 


C;  GOOD-BYE  €1 

sponded.     "  Sorry  and  glad  at  the  same 
time." 

"  Yessum,  I  knows  you  is ;  sorry 
kase  hit 's  tunning  yo'  back  on  de  ole 
place,  an'  glad  kase  hit 's  Mass'  Hugh 
what's  tekin'  you  off.  Hit's  nateral, 
chile,  but  Ise  downright  mad  youse 
gwine  so  far  away." 

"  I  shall  come  back,"  I  said.  "  Mr. 
Hugh  has  promised  to  bring  me." 

"  T  ain'  de  same,  Miss  Mary,  't  ain' 
de  same  ;  youse  done  wid  all  of  us, 
allus  !  Howsomever,  dat  ain'  what  I 
hed  on  my  mine  ter  tell  you." 

"  What  was  it  ?  "  I  queried,  think 
ing  she  wanted  to  ask  some  final 
questions  about  to-morrow's  arrange 
ments. 

"  Hit 's  dis,  Miss  Mary.  Me  an' 
Hinery  an'  Ephr'um  wuz  talkin'  'bout 
you  larst  night  —  you  an'  Mass'  Hugh  ; 
an'  Hinery  he  up  an'  say,  sez  he,  '  Miss 
Mary 's  gwine  up  yander  wid  all  dose 
rich  folkses,  an'  bimeby  wese  gwine 
ter  pass  clean  out  'n  her  mine/ }: 
l*  [  225  ] 


HBAYOU    TRISTE«H 

"And  did  Uncle  Ephr'um  agree 
with  Henry  ? " 

"  Ephr'um,  he  say, '  Go  long,  nigger  ; 
she  ain'  dat  kine,  you  don'  know  Miss 
Mary.  All  de  riches  on  dis  green 
yuth  ain'  gwine  ter  mek  her  furgit  ole 
Louisianny  ! " 

"  And  how  about  you  ?  " 

US'  I,  'Ephr'um  Gabul,  an'  you, 
Hinery  Wilson,  lissen  ter  me.  Dem 
rich  folkses  ain'  never  gwine  onsettle 
Miss  Mary,  kase  she 's  got  what 's 
better  'n  money  —  she  's  got  blood,  an' 
she  ain'  never  gwine  back  on  hit." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  I,  trying  valiantly 
to  forget  certain  acts  of  hers  not  con 
sistent  with  these  noble  ideas.  "  I  hope 
I  '11  never  disappoint  you." 

"  Dat 's  right,  Miss  Mary,"  she  cried, 
"  dat 's  right.  Don'  you  let  'em  skeer 
you  ;  nemmine  ef  dey  is  rich,  jes  you 
hole  up  your  hade  an'  'member  who 
you  is,  an'  nothin'  ain'  gwine  ter  flus- 
trate  you  den." 

A  sentiment  so  entirely  in  sympathy 
[226  ] 


€t  GOOD-BYE  4tt 

with  my  own  views,  that  in  the  after 
years  I  found  it  easy  to  comply  with 
the  parting  advice  of  my  voluble, 
audacious,  yet  always  good-hearted 
follower. 


[227] 


PLANTATION  FOLK  LORE. 

MAMMY'S 
REMINISCENCES 

BY  MRS.  MARTHA  S.  GIELOW 


OF   ALABAMA 


izmo.      Illuminated  cloth.      Illustrated   with   pictures  drawn   from 
life  by  Mrs.  Clara  Weaver  Parrish.      128  pages.      Price,  $1.00. 


"  A  delightful  series  of  planta 
tion  sketches. " 

The   Outlook. 

tf  Never  have  the  old  Southern 
'  Daddy  '  and  «  Mammy  ' 
been  more  deliciously  por 
trayed  than  they  are  in 
Mrs.  Gielow's  pages." 

Boston  Journal. 

"  Nor  can  one  read  this  book 
without  gaining  a  clearer 
insight  into  the  quaint 
humor  of  the  negro's 
happy  simple  nature." 

St.  Paul  Globe. 

(<  It  is  well  that  some  one 
who  knew  this  faithful 

*  Mammy  '  should  perpet 
uate  her.     While  we  grieve 
that   she    is    gone,  let    us 
give  thanks   that  in   these 

*  Reminiscences  '  we  may 
live  over  again  the  days  of 
our  youth." 

Nashville  American. 


'T*HIS  book  is  a  collec 
tion  of  folk-lore  and 
character  sketches  that 
give  correct  and  natural 
pictures  of  the  old  time 
"Mammy"  and  "Daddy," 
the  devoted  foster  parents 
to  the  children  of  the 
South.  It  is  a  book  for 
"after  the  war"  children, 
where  they  can  view  the 
lives  of  their  mothers  and 
fathers. 


v  A  copy  of  Mammy's 
Reminiscences  will  be  sent 
postpaid  to  any  address  on 
receipt  of  $1.00. 


A  TRUE  LOVE  IDYL." 


THE  LOVE  STORY  OF 
ABNER  STONE 

By    EDWIN    CARLILE    LITSEY 

I2mo.       Gilt  top.      1 70  pages.       Price,  $1.20  net.       Postage,  90. 


"  A  charming  love  itory  straight  from 
the  heart." 

Savannah  News. 

"  As  sweet  and  tender  a  story  as  has 

come  our  way  for  a  long  time." 

Charleston  Neius  and  Courier. 


Not  since  Allen's  Kentucky  Cardinal 

have  I  read  a  more  beautiful  tale. ' ' 

T.  C.  W.  in  Impressions. 


The  charm  of  the  tale  is  its  fresh 
feeling  for  nature,  its  atmospheric 
quality,  and  that  touch  of  ideal 
ism  which  gives  life  unfailing 


romance. 


Hamilton  W.  Mabie  in 

The  Outlook. 


"  To  say  that  'The  author's  descriptive 
powers  are  of  the  best'  does  scant 
justice  to  the  pure  lights,  the 
dreamy  shades  Mr.  Litsey  imparts 
to  his  Kentucky  scenery." 
N.  Y.  Times,  Saturday  Review. 


A  most  charming  story 
of  love  and  nature. 
The  author,  a  Kentuck- 
ian,  has  caught  the  true 
spirit  of  nature,  and 
weaves  into  his  beautiful 
descriptions  a  love  story 
so  pure,  so  beautiful,  so  in 
tense,  that  one  instinctive 
ly  says :  "  This  is  a  man's 
life  story/'  The  scene  is 
laid  in  the  Blue  Grass 
region,  while  the  volume 
is  the  perfection  of  the 
printer's  art. 


v  A  copy  of  The  Love 
Story  of  Abner  Stone  will 
be  sent  postpaid  to  any  ad 
dress  on  receipt  of  $1.29. 


M15597 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


